And Then There Was One

The shouting continued for a few hours. Finally they all controlled themselves. What good would it be to argue and produce chaos? It certainly wouldn’t get them anywhere and it definitely wouldn’t help them to escape.

“We need to make like civilized professionals and figure out what’s going on here?” Patrice Bergeron spoke.

“Maybe Torey’s death was accidental?” Tyler Seguin suggested, sending a sympathetic look to his old linemate.

“Yeah or maybe it wasn’t!” the Anaheim Ducks’ leader growled. He snapped his head to the side and glared at the man he suspected.

“Oh drop it Getzlaf! I didn’t murder the Bruin!” the Pittsburgh Penguin snapped.

“You were the only one with him! And until we have proof, you are going to be labeled as the prime suspect!”

Chaos broke out once more.

Sidney Crosby folded his arms, glowering at the Duck. Ryan Kesler was behind his captain, Ryan Getzlaf, and he had his back, snapping at Sidney. They had a stare off, while Jonathan Toews and Patrick Kane, the two Chicago Blackhawks held one another closely. Val Nichushkin stood at the bottom step of the staircase. He stared down the dark wood color, intently. He was lost, puzzled and had no idea what was going on. Reilly Smith stared at him, cocking his head in mock curiosity. Patrice Bergeron and Tyler Seguin were conversing with Drew Doughty.

Suddenly a deep voice boomed over an intercom system, high above them. It echoed around the room, halting their arguing. It wasn’t coming from an actual person, it sounded disguised, inhuman, and recorded. It was almost freaky. And it scared everyone out of there tenseness. Without a warning, it penetrated the ears of the players, gathered below.

The noise died down from the group once more, as they focused on the voice and what it said: “Silence, please! Welcome. You have all been brought here because of something that you have done to me, whether on the ice, off the ice or both. If you can figure out what it is, then maybe I won’t kill you. Maybe. But it depends on how generous I am. After all, I’ve already planned the rest of the day and the next out precisely. I suggest you watch your backs and have fun guessing.”

There was a clicking noise, as the recording shut off. The hockey players gazed around at one another. The voice had stopped.

There was a moment's petrified silence and then a resounding crash! Sidney Crosby had dropped his drink. And it had landed on the floor. Glass shattered, scattering everywhere.

Ryan Getzlaf and Ryan Kesler punched him in either arm, now standing on either side of the man.

At the same moment, from somewhere on the right side of the room, there came a petrified, high-pitched, girly scream and the sound of a thud.

Patrice was the first to move. He leapt to the side and stared ahead, trying to place the noise. Near a decorative tree, lying in the outstretched arms of his fellow teammate was Patrick Kane.

Jonathan’s head snapped up and he called, "Patrice."

The Bruin sprinted over to help him. Between them, they lifted up the blonde haired man and carried him across and into the small area, where the fireplace, grandfather clock and seating area were at the left side of the foyer room.

Ryan Kesler came across quickly. He helped them to lift the young man onto the sofa and then he bent over the Chicago goal scorer. He reported rather quickly, "It's nothing. He's fainted, that's all. He'll be round in a minute."

Tyler cried out, "Who was that speaking? Where was he? It sounded - it sounded -"

Ryan Getzlaf spluttered out, "What's going on here? What kind of a sick practical joke was that?" His hands were shaking. His shoulders sagged. He looked suddenly ten years older. (If not already older because of his balding!!)

Only Sidney Crosby and Matt Cooke seemed comparatively unmoved. Sidney stood upright, his head held high. In both cheeks was a spot of hard color. The ex-Penguin stood in his habitual pose, his head sunk down into his neck. With one hand, he gently scratched his ear. Only his eyes were active, darting round and round the room, puzzled, alert with intelligence. He looked like he wanted to cross-check someone into the boards.

“Is that normal?” Val spoke up, his blue eyes glittering with uncertainty and fear. He still stood at the staircase.

Tyler walked up to him and grabbed him close. “Don’t be frightened Val, we’ll get out of here alive!”

Val looked up at him with big blue eyes. They hugged one another in comfort.

“It’s Seguin! Seguin’s the killer!” Drew snarled, pointing at the Dallas Star.

Tyler furrowed his brow, shaking his head, as he held the shaking Russian rookie in his arms protectively. He couldn’t believe that someone would accuse him of being a murderer. “Do I look like a fucking killer to you?”

“No,” Drew dropped his hand, but kept an intense glare on the Star.

Again it was Patrice who acted. Jonathan and Ryan Kesler being busy with the collapsed Blackhawk man, the Boston centre was free once more to take the initiative. "That voice? It sounded as though it were in the room."

Tyler cried, "Who was it? Who was it? It wasn't one of us. It certainly wasn’t me!"

“Tyler’s right,” The Penguin captain spoke up, raising his head up even taller, “His voice is way too high-pitched and feminine to be the voice of that which we heard!”

“I could say the same about you Sid!” Tyler retorted.

There was an intense moment of silence that followed the accusation. All of the players shared uneasy and accusing looks between enemies. Patrice wasn’t sold on Ryan Getzlaf’s innocence. The Bruin thought he was the one, as he kept lashing out at Sidney.

Outside, the pounding of the heavy storm raged. It tattered against the exterior, creating a hollow echoing noise, that seemed to fill the entire house. Distant rumbles of thunder clashed. But inside, the scene was tenser than the Stanley Cup Playoffs.

Like the goon, Patrice's eyes wandered slowly around the room. They rested a minute on the pair of knight statues, than he shook his head decisively. Suddenly his eyes lit up. He moved forward swiftly to where a door near the fireplace led into an adjoining room.

With a swift gesture, he caught the handle and flung the door open. He passed through and immediately uttered an exclamation of satisfaction. "Ah, here we are."

The others crowded in after him. Only Patrick remained alone, now sitting erect in his chair. He was fine and he back to consciousness. He was blinking a few times, checking his sight out. Or he had an annoying eyelash in his eye.

Inside the second room, a table had been brought up close to the wall which adjoined the drawing-room. On the table was a gramophone - an old-fashioned type, with a large trumpet attached. The mouth of the trumpet was against the wall, and Patrice, pushing it aside, indicated where two or three small holes had been unobtrusively bored through the wall.

Adjusting the gramophone, he replaced the needle on the record and immediately they heard again, "You have all been brought here because of something that you have done to me, whether on the ice, off the ice or both. If you can figure out what it is----"

"Turn it off! Turn it off! It's horrible!" Tyler wailed from the back of the group. He threw his hands over his mouth.

Patrice obeyed. “Don’t be such a drama queen Segs!”

Reilly Smith spoke up, with a sigh of relief, "A disgraceful and heartless practical joke, I suppose."

The small clear voice of Ryan Kesler murmured: "So you think it's a joke, do you?"

The small Bruin winger stared at him, shrugging. "What else could it be?"

The hand of the newest Anaheim Duck gently stroked his upper lip. "At the moment I'm not prepared to give an opinion."

Ryan Getzlaf broke in, "Look here, there's one thing you've forgotten. Who the devil turned the thing on and set it going?" His blue eyes flashed with a frustrating ignorance.

Jonathan murmured: "Yes, I think we must inquire into that." He led the way back into the seating area-room. The others followed him. He returned to the side of his fellow teammate from Chicago. He put his arm gently, resting it on Patrick’s shoulder. The blonde haired man tilted his head up, looking into his captain’s massive puppy dog amber eyes. They shimmered in the firelight.

"Did I faint, Johnny?" Patrick asked, his blue eyes shining with terror.

"Yes."

"It was the voice - that awful voice - like a judgment----“ His face turned pale again, his eyelids fluttered.

Jonathan smacked him across the face, rudely, like a soap opera. Patrick’s color returned to his face. He frowned at his teammate. "I'm all right now. It just - gave me a turn."

Sidney added on quickly, attempting to sound innocent and prove himself, "Of course it did. It gave me a turn too. It made me drop my drink. Wicked lies, it was! I'd like to know -" He was interrupted.

It was only a cough - a dry little cough, but it had the effect of stopping him in full thought. He stared at Ryan Kesler and the latter coughed again. "Who put that record on the gramophone? Was it you, Sid?"

Sidney frowned, folding his arms. He had thought that his agreement with Patrick would make him come across more innocent. But alas it didn’t. "I didn't know what it was. Before God, I didn't know what it was, Kes. If I had, I'd never have done it."

The Anaheim Duck captain chuckled and said drily: "That is probably true. But I think you'd better explain, Sid."

Drew Doughty broke out suddenly, exclaiming, "The whole thing is preposterous - preposterous! Slinging accusations about like this! Something must be done about it. This fellow whoever he is -"

Patrick Kane interrupted, sharply, still sitting in the chair. "That's just it, who is he?"

The Bruin centre interposed. He spoke with the authority that what seemed like a life-time in the alternative captain role on the ice had given him. "That is exactly what we must go into very carefully. I should suggest that you stay there, Kaner. The rest of us need to come up with a plan."

The Blackhawk dipped his head, respectfully. He understood that he was in no state to do anything at the moment. "Yes, Bergy."

Patrice Bergeron took charge of the proceedings. The room became an impromptu court of law. "Now then, boys, we must get to the bottom of this. Who is this voice and who owns this place?"

Before anyone could speak, all around them the torches diminished in an instant and the light went out. The fire in the fireplace went out as well. There was the sound of Patrick Kane fainting once more in the chair, as his shrill scream electrified the bleak atmosphere. The foyer of the mansion was bathed in darkness. No one could see anything or hear anything.

In the terror, a deep, piercing scream sounded, “Hey, what the fuck?!” It was followed immediately by a loud thunking noise. And then finally a heavy bang. The sound of some kind of object was heard being set down by an unknown assailant.

The torch light came back on after a few moments.

At once, the hockey players saw that Matt Cooke was lying on the floor. His head was brutally bashed and a massive gash, where blood had pooled out on the ground, marked his temple, just under his hairline. His face was still screwed up in a furious look. The goon had been beaten to death.

A bat, mostly likely used as the weapon, leaned against the wall, adjacent to the curved entry way that lead between the dining room and foyer. It was drenched in red crimson blood. The weapon.

All eyes turned to the man standing closest to him. It was Ryan Getzlaf. He immediately raised his arms up in surrender. Some of the blood had splattered on his shirt. His eyes were wide open with shock.

The Pittsburgh Penguin chuckled to the side. He stepped forward, clapping his hands in a twisted delight. “See, it wasn’t me and ole Getzy was here in the same group as Torey too! Murderer!” His brow knit together, as he glared at the Duck.

“Ok, Sid, settle down. I didn’t kill anyone. I was trying to find the light switch or something!”

“LIAR!!”

The Duck launched forward and attacked the Penguin. They both clutched onto one another’s shoulder, spinning around. They growled and made furious faces.

A loud clapping halted their fight. They broke apart, still glaring at one another. “Sid, Getz, stop! Nobody’s going to point fingers at anyone yet. Let’s take deep breaths and try to get the fuck out of here!” Drew snapped, before he bolted toward the giant double doors and tried the silver lion head shaped handles.

He gave a sharp jerk, pulling at them, but the door wouldn’t budge. A big lightning strike lit up the frame, as he stepped back. He flinched in terror, as the loud boom followed, almost knocking him backward off his feet. He was certain that the lightning strike had struck the ground right outside.

“We’re trapped in here!!” The Los Angeles Kings’ defenseman screamed, darting back to the safety of the group.