And Then There Was One

The Group’s POV

Everyone kept their eyes on Sidney, as he was forced into a chair, in the center of the group. No one took their eyes off of him. The Penguin folded his arms and leaned back in his chair.

“Are you all satisfied?” the Pittsburgh player spat.

“So, what are we going to do?” Tyler asked.

“We can’t let Sid out of our sight! But we need to think. Someone is killing us off,” Patrice flicked his gaze to the pile of bodies downstairs in the corner, near the door.

“But who?” Jonathan questioned.

Ryan Kesler and Ryan Getzlaf had volunteered to move Reilly’s body down to be placed with the others. They didn’t want him to be in the way and out in the open. It was already depressing enough that there were now three dead NHL players, who would never grace the ice again. They had immediately returned to the group, where Patrice kept his hands on top of the Pittsburgh player’s shoulders, holding him down.

“That is true, but what should we do? We have to find out who the killer is! Why would someone tell us that Torey, Reilly, and Matt Cooke would die?” Patrick questioned.

“It’s not me, I swear! I am not killing anyone! I’m not like that!” Sidney exclaimed. “I may be despicable on the ice, but off the ice, I wouldn’t hurt no one! I swear!”

“You vanishing from sight and being in the wrong places at the wrong time, isn’t exactly helping your case, any!” Ryan Getzlaf growled.

Sidney heaved a sigh and rolled his eyes. “I’m innocent. And when the real killer finally slips up, you’ll know it wasn’t me!”

“But until then, you are the number one suspect. Now come on, let’s go downstairs to the sitting area and come up with something.”

They slowly made their way down the grand staircase, clustered together. Everyone’s eyes were trained on Sidney Crosby, who flipped them all off, purposefully.

They chatted with one another, arguing about what they could do. Patrick and Jonathan shared looks, while Patrice, Ryan Getzlaf, and Sidney seemed to take control. Val sat off to the side with Tyler. He grinned his innocent, ignorant look, as he watched the scene before him. Drew shook his head and put his input in occasionally.

Before long, they all decided that they should head back upstairs and check the rooms out. They all wanted to get to sleep, as it was nearing one o’clock in the morning, according to the giant grandfather clock, against the wall.

They all got up and gathered together, shoving Sidney into the middle. The torch light, casted eerie shadows on the walls, as the NHL players once more ascended the stairs. But one of them trailed behind.

****

Tyler Seguin’s POV

Tyler Seguin stopped in place, abruptly. He heard a faint whistling noise. It wasn’t the wind outside. No, it was something else. He thought it was nothing. But then it came again, this time whispering, clearly, “Tyler Seguin.” The Dallas Star turned around in his spot and gazed behind him. Nothing. No one was there.

He spun back around and shrugged. He was hallucinating. He made to rejoin the others, but a gloved hand on his wrist halted him in place. His blood ran ice cold, as he whirled back around, only to have the grip tighten on him at once. His arm was wrenched up his back, uncomfortably. He made to scream, but the other hand clamped over his mouth, muting his cries. He struggled, kicking and screaming.

His free hand launched upward and clawed at the hand over his mouth. His eyes were wide open in shock, as the sudden seizing freaked him out. Who had him? What did they have planned for him?

He remembered the poem in the library and the next line of it:

“Nine professional hockey players were up really late,

One was suffocated, snuffed, and then there were eight.”

He stopped squirming, as a heavy object came in contact with his skull. He slumped to the ground, winded and dizzy, but he managed to somehow survive. The man swung again at him, this time clobbering him good over the temple.

There was silence, broken only by a single repetitious: Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock. There was something ominous about the steady, measured sound. Tyler, still half dazed, saw the room moving. He tried to scream out, but found that he was too dizzy to even scream. His lips remained pressed together, as his eyelids drooped more and more. His head hurt like hell. And he could feel two strong hands gripping him, under the armpits, as he was dragged backward into a secret room.

He saw a door slide closed. And that was when he blacked out instantly.

****

The Group’s POV

Everyone halted in place, as Patrick Kane’s girly shriek came again from the back.

“What is it this time, Kaner?” Jonathan groaned, whirling around to his teammate, who was staring wide eyed behind him. His hands were cupped together over his mouth. He was freaked out over something.

“Segs!” the little blonde haired man replied, his voice higher in pitch.

“What about him?” Patrice questioned. “Where is he?”

“He’s gone!”

“Fuck! We need to find him!! Nobody strays from this room! Search for him! He has to be in here, somewhere!”

“Why should I look for him? I bet you he IS the killer!” Sidney snarled, folding his arms across his chest.

“Sid, I am in no mood right now, for your bad attitude! Help search, otherwise, don’t and be labeled at the murderer, because Tyler is not a killer!” Patrice snapped, smacking the Penguin on the back, hard.

The remaining hockey players scattered about the room, searching for the lost player.

****

Tyler Seguin’s POV

Total darkness, total pain.

Where am I?

Tyler tried to raise his head and look around, but he was halted. He felt a restriction imposed upon him and some kind of plastic material was scratching his skin. A deep ache closed on the back of his neck like a claw. He let his head drop backward.

Backward?

That was when he realized that he was sitting in some wooden chair that creaked from his attempt to move. He discovered that he was bound at his wrists, which were strapped down to the arms of the chair and his ankles were attached to the legs of the furniture. His mind flashed on photos he’d seen of countless horror shows or mystery shows. He was stationary. The pain was from his cramped neck muscles, and from the bonds pulling down on his wrists and ankles. He could see nothing in the blackness. Hear nothing.

All he knew was that he was trapped and unable to move. And what was on his neck? His head, flushed with the blood rushing to it, and it began to throb with almost unendurable pain behind his ears. There was one other agonized feeling in his head from the knock out.

He tried to ask if anyone was there, what was happening, but his mouth wouldn’t open. Something, tape probably, was over his lips, sealing them together. He parted them with difficulty, but could only make a soft muffled sound halfway between a moan and a sob. He made the pitiful sound again. Any sound was better than the darkness and silence, and the pain.

He tried to lift his head up off the back of the chair, but it weighed a thousand pounds and it wouldn’t budge.

But with the thought of motion, and another stab of pain, came memory.

He remembered that he was walking with the rest of the group down the hallway. A hand had reached out of nowhere and grabbed him by the wrist and over the mouth. He fought and tried to get the others’ attentions, but his screams were muffled and he couldn’t get free.

He remembered that he had been by the grandfather clock and a strange noise had made him halt. He had decided to investigate, but was clocked over the head by something heavy.

Light!

Blinding him. He involuntarily clenched his eyes shut.

When Tyler did manage to open his eyes wider than slits, he saw the blurry view ahead of him. He could see, but barely. Rough wood planks running one direction, joists another. And what was over his head? A bag! A hefty plastic bag had been wrapped over his face, obscuring his view. It was tied tightly in place by a rope.

His wrists were tied together with thick manila rope that had cut off his circulation, so that his fingers were pale. He strained to see his ankles, his feet – are they as pale and bloodless as my hands? – but he couldn’t pull them into his field of vision. He did see several long fluorescent fixtures, two glowing tubes each. There must be lots of fixtures. That was where all the light was coming from. And the faint, crackling buzzing.

He realized he’d been able to raise his head slightly, almost to the horizontal, and with realization came another shot of pain at the base of his neck. He could feel the plastic and the rope tightening in its place. His head dropped backward again, dangling at a sharp angle, so that he could only gaze upward, from the thin stalk of his neck.

But he eventually managed to turn his head slightly, before the pain stopped him. He was a tough hockey player and he fought through the pain. He saw that he was in what looked like a large basement or attic of some kind. Gray concrete walls, wooden support beams, exposed steam and water pipes, round ductwork with shreds of insulation hanging from some of it like grotesque stalactites.

Asbestos? Could be dangerous.

The pain became unbearable, and he tried not to move at all other than to blink away his tears.

In the glimpse he had of himself, confirmed by the lack of constriction on his upper arms and his legs, he knew that he was helpless. He also felt a little more light-headed with each second that ticked by.

Someone – What’s his name? I need to know it so I can plead, beg for him to stop whatever’s going to happen! – someone had done this to him. Something had caused him to black out, to awaken here, strapped down to a chair with his bound wrists and ankles like a…. He didn’t want to know what. Or didn’t want to think about it. It was emasculating.

And to add to the fact of his image, he shivered at the chill in the air. He realized that his shirt had been cut down the middle and his chest was halfway exposed. He didn’t mind it, obviously, being Tyler Seguin, the young hockey playing heart-throb, but he hadn’t done it! Someone else HAD.

Tears welled in his eyes and tracked downward along his temples, beneath his hairline. Tickling as if in cruel and obscene jest. It caught in the bag and he forced himself to stop, otherwise he might drown himself.

Motion caught his gaze, and ahead of him, in his pain-blurred vision, the man who had attacked him. He couldn’t make out who exactly he was, due to the bag, but he had a photogenic smile, which was actually quite creepy. He wasn’t surprised to see the man. He had to be responsible for this.

He walked toward the Dallas forward, like a figure in a nightmare. Only it wasn’t a nightmare; it was REAL. He could only pray that it might be. That he might wake up a second time, in his house in Dallas, in his bed. Safe.

“How are you enjoying my secret room?” he asked.

As soon as he spoke, Tyler gasped. He knew who the man was and he was furious. He jerked against the ropes, making angry stifled noise behind the tape and the bag.

He heard the snickering and the evil cackling from the man, who he once thought was a friend. The real horror engulfed him. His life was draining away, his remaining time, his remaining everything! He panicked and tried to suck in air through his nose. He became more and more faint and light-headed. He desperately attempted to raise his hands and get the bag off of his head. He also tried to rip the tape from his mouth, but his hands were tied. Literally. He drew in a breath to scream, but inhaled nothing. He struggled for air, the panic settling in.

After a little bit, his efforts weakened tremendously and his eyes fluttered shut.

****

The Group’s POV

Ryan Kesler and Drew Doughty worked in unison to open the sliding door. They had discovered that the grandfather clock was actually more than just a clock. It was, in fact, a doorway that led to a secret room.

“Come on, Doughts, put your back into it man!”

“Ditto, Kes!”

They finally managed to pull the entrance open and gasped in horror. They staggered on their feet, as they found Tyler Seguin, bound to the chair and dead, with a bag over his head. They rushed in and Ryan removed the plastic item from the forward’s head.

His face was pale and colorless. Drew felt for a pulse, but there was none. Tyler Seguin was indeed dead.

“Hey, we found the Star!” Drew’s pitiful cry sounded.

The others rushed over and peered in. Patrick let loose a sorrowful scream and fainted yet again, falling back into the rapid reacting arms or Jonathan Toews, who caught him.

“Segs is dead?” Patrick whimpered.

“Tyler!” Val cried and raced to his new teammate and friend. He threw his arms around the man, he had looked up to on the team. One of the veterans. Who was now dead, the newest victim to the cruel evening of murder.

“Everyone to your rooms, now!” Patrice barked the command.

Drew grabbed the Russian, who was sobbing. He may not have understood most of the conversations going on, but he knew that his teammate wasn’t coming back alive and it upset him deeply.

Things had just gone from bad to worse for Valeri Nichushkin....