“A vomit bag?”

“You’ll be interesting to have around,” said Daniel. Then his expression turned serious. “Now, I don’t want you to take offense to this, okay?”

“Okay.”

“You’re new here, we only know each other through letters, so you’ll understand if I have to take some precautions, right?”

I nodded. “Absolutely. It takes time to feel you can trust a homicidal maniac.”

“Great. So don’t freak out when I lock you in here, all right?”

“Not a problem. I understand completely.”

“To make more bubbles, just turn the black knob to the right. Sometimes it sticks a bit, but you’ll figure it out. See you in an hour.”

Daniel left the room, shutting the door behind him. A soft click proved that I was now a prisoner, too.

WHEN I was little, my dad used to say, “Son, guilt doesn’t make a very fluffy pillow.” It was not a statement that will ever make it into any of those best-selling books of quotes, but that didn’t stop him from saying it on a regular basis. My mom would occasionally try to intervene, insisting that it was only confusing me, but my dad would explain that he was trying to teach me a lesson. It didn’t really work.

The only long-lasting effect of his lesson is that, in times such as these, when I was wracked with guilt, I’ll often think to myself “You know, Andrew, guilt doesn’t make a very fluffy pillow.” It’s annoying as hell. I’m terrified that someday Kyle will misbehave and I’ll say it to him before I realize what unholiness I’ve unleashed.

So, anyway, I had that stupid quote running through my mind while I turned on the water in the Jacuzzi. I had no intention of actually relaxing in it, but I hoped the noise of the whirlpool would cover the sound of me poking around, as well as convince anyone who happened to be listening that I was perfectly relaxed in my demented environment.

I did, however, take a hot shower. I felt guilty while I did it, since Roger no doubt was not currently enjoying a cascade of soothing water, but I couldn’t exactly go downstairs to dinner reeking of nervous sweat.

After I was done, I turned on the whirlpool, took one of four white bathrobes from the closet, and then began to search the room, hoping to find either a weapon or an escape route.

I eliminated the escape route idea fairly quickly. No secret doors under the bed, under the rug, or in the closet. At least no obvious secret doors. I could possibly kick a hole through the wall, given sufficient time and better shoes, but I wasn’t going to pursue that option quite yet.

Next I searched for weapons, something that could be easily concealed. The bedroom was a dead end. Some of the corpse posters looked like excellent paper cut material, and perhaps I could smother somebody with one of the fluffy pillows, but I needed something more substantial.

There was a shaving razor in the bathroom, but unfortunately it was electric. The best I could come up with was a pair of fingernail clippers. I slipped them into the pocket of the bathrobe. You never know.

In an emergency, I could break the mirror on the medicine cabinet and use the shards of glass, but beyond that I seemed to be pretty much stuck with the fingernail clippers.

I continued to search, and jumped when there was a knock at the door half an hour later. I waited as long as it would have taken me to get out of the Jacuzzi and towel off, and then went over to the door.

“Yeah?”

“It’s Foster. I’ve got your clothes.”

The lock clicked, and then Foster opened the door, holding some neatly folded clothes.

“Great, thanks,” I said.

“No problem. Too bad yours got stolen.”

“Yeah, well, things happen.”

“Uh-huh. By the way, I don’t believe for one second that you are who you say you are, and it will be my great pleasure to gouge your eyes out very soon. Then I’m going to rip out your throat and make you eat it.”

“But you’ll spare my nose, won’t you?”

“Just keep thinking this is funny,” said Foster. “Pretty soon it won’t be.”

He thrust the clothes at me, and then shut the door.

“What a prick,” I said to the shirt.

I got dressed in the designer jeans and green polo shirt Foster had so thoughtfully provided. I transferred the handy fingernail clippers to my jeans pocket. I’d just tucked in my shirt when Daniel arrived to escort me to dinner.

“SO, ANDREW,” began Mortimer, stuffing a bite of prime rib in his mouth, “what’s the story? I’m talking about the whole Headhunter thing? Daniel explained part of it, but I’m still confused.”

I shrugged. “Not much to tell. Have you read my book?”

“Yeah, actually.”

“Lies. From beginning to end.”

“You don’t say.” Mortimer thought about that for a moment. “So you actually worked for Ghoulish Delights?”

“That’s right. They tried to rip me off, and I have it on good authority that they regretted it.”

Daniel chuckled. “Excellent lobster, honey,” he said to Josie. “You’ve outdone yourself again.”

“Just call me Mrs. Domestic.”

“And while you were with Ghoulish Delights, you were also going around killing people as the Headhunter?” asked Mortimer.

“That’s right.”

“Busy son of a bitch,” muttered Foster.

“Idle hands do the devil’s work.”

“So, you’re part of Ghoulish Delights, and you’re the Headhunter,” said Mortimer. “You’ve got this fantastic cover story that you’re Andrew Mayhem, the family man who stopped a bunch of sadistic killers and their fans. Why would you tell anyone your secret?”

Thomas had posed that same question to the Headhunter. “Because,” I said, taking a sip of my red wine, “Daniel here promised me one hell of a party.”

“And you’ll get it,” said Daniel.

“Besides, who’d believe it?” I asked. “I’ll just tell the press that you wackos kidnapped me.” I laughed in what I hoped was a convincing manner.

“What about Roger? I thought you two were best friends from childhood.”

I took a much larger sip of the wine. “We were.”

“Then what happened?”

“Things changed.”

“No kidding. They must’ve changed quite a bit for you to bring him here. What did he do?”

“Let’s just say that when I came home early one day, I decided to be a little more creative than running for the shotgun.”

Mortimer nodded his understanding. “Gotcha.”

“Lost three wives that way,” said Stan, not looking up from his dinner. Daniel had forbade him from smoking at the dinner table, but an unlit cigarette stuck out of the corner of his mouth as he chewed his steak.

“So when do I find out the big surprise?” I asked. “There’s only so much suspense one guy can take, you know.”

“Then we’ll get right into the overview,” said Daniel. “You’ve probably guessed that all of us sitting here at this table are…well, we’re sickos. Just like you. Without trying to get into the psychological explanations and theories about our mothers and all that crap, it’s safe to say that we very much enjoy torture and murder. We like the suffering, we like the pain, we like the whole visual spectacle. Simply put, we’re a bunch of freaks.”

“Here, here,” said Josie, raising her wine glass.

“The thing is, it’s not the most convenient hobby to enjoy. The dangers are incredible. Even a sniper puts himself at risk, but we want the up close and personal element. We don’t want it over quickly. We want them to know what’s happening, and what’s going to happen. Sometimes we even love to rub the family’s face in it…not literally, though that would be fun, too.”

Just keep smiling, I told myself. You like what he’s saying… you like what he’s saying… you like what he’s saying… at least don’t puke on the lobster…

“Anyway,” Daniel continued, “I am, if you haven’t already guessed, extremely rich. I did not murder my father to get my inheritance, I earned it the good old-fashioned way: lung cancer. So I had this wonderful house built. Like it?”