Fosgate's Game by David C. Cassidy (most interesting books to read .txt) 📕

a short segment was saved.”

“And?”

No reply was forthcoming.

“Fosgate?”

“It shows … something.”

“Something?”

“I can’t explain it,” Fosgate said, after some deliberation. “It lasts no more than a few seconds. But it is the most terrifying breaths one could endure. Would you care to see it?”

“Not in the least. What do you think you saw?”

Again, Fosgate considered. “I can’t say, exactly. And I couldn’t speculate.”

“I see,” Chadwick said, nodding. “… Fosgate … there’s something else.”

“Yes. The … survivors, if you will.”

“Why weren’t they harmed?”

“I do hold a theory. Should a match end in stalemate, would not the target be spared?”

“Seems a reasonable assumption,” Chadwick said, although humoring Fosgate seemed the worst thing he could do. “Tell me … what exactly did you pay for this … thing.” He paused, his eyes tracing every sculpted line, every shadow, among the pieces. “Admit it. You didn’t really spend what you told me.”

“‘Der preis?’ I’d finally asked,” Fosgate said. “‘Sehr gut,’ the proprietor told me. ‘Und sehr teuer.’ ‘Very good. And very expensive,’ Katherine later warned me. I admit: I’d fallen for the set. Cost mattered nothing.”

Chadwick’s silence said it all.

“Agreed,” Fosgate granted. “I should have been on my way right then and there. But I suppose I may have led you astray on the price. Expensive, certainly—and very likely worth much more due to that signature—but not nearly as much as I’ve let on. I’m afraid I was never good at currency conversion, but in my estimation it was closer to fourteen hundred pounds. Cash only, you understand.

“Clearly, I had no funds of that sort about me. But being a man of means … suffice to say, the German’s old eyes lit up with what I’d offered in barter. Hard to imagine, isn’t it? This curious fellow driving about the mountains of Baden-Württemberg in my BMW. I can only assume, naturally. I left the keys, but he would have had to make quite the trek to fetch the motorcar.”

“The Coupe? Are you insane?”

“The Cabriolet, I’m afraid.”

Chadwick barely mustered a chuckle. The storm tempered him.

“Do you see?” Fosgate said. “The little Shylock knew only too well I’d wanted the set. As I said, of the countless items available, he offered this. As if it had called to him, begging to be proffered. Perhaps that’s the way it is in that strangest of shops; perhaps each item merely bides its time, year upon year, until their time has come. Until that fateful moment when its rightful owner returns.”

“Rightful?”

“Happenstance?” Fosgate retorted. “I think not. The odds against are incalculable.”

And then, before Chadwick could respond: “The man spoke of dreams … my dreams. This is not founded on the whims of chance. There is something at work here. Something far larger than ourselves.”

Chadwick shook his head. “An interesting tale. But there’s one detail you’ve overlooked. And quite frankly, I’m surprised. You’ve no idea this even works.”

Fosgate puffed. Sat back. “Indeed. Let’s have at it, shall we?”

~ 9

Chadwick started at some deafening thunder. Harsh wind and rain slammed against the windows. A chill rippled through him, further stirring the black ill in his gut. “Enough, Fosgate. Enough of this nonsense. I really must be off.”

Fosgate, who had moved to the hearth, stoked the fire. Hunched the way he was, his long shadow on the wall cast a ghoulish sight. “You’ll do as I deem. By God man, you will.”

“I beg your pardon.”

The hunter turned to Chadwick, poker in hand. “What are you afraid of?”

Chadwick plunked his drink on the table. “I’ve had quite enough of this,” he said, rising. “Thank you for a wonderful evening.”

He turned his back to the hearth, certain that Fosgate would never bring himself to strike. The man’s admission of distaste for such a deed notwithstanding, the very notion seemed unfathomable. Fosgate harbored a black temper to be sure, but to kill him?

He stepped softly to the doors, and as he reached them, Fosgate’s sharp tongue slapped him.

“I wouldn’t, Chadwick.”

Chadwick held a moment. He closed his eyes, imagining the long drive home in the battering rain. If only he’d left earlier; if only the damned storm had let up.

He turned. His head was spinning from the alcohol, but he held enough of his faculties to parry with Fosgate. “I’m not afraid to go to the police.”

Fosgate set the poker in its stand. The lights flickered. “And what exactly might you say?”

Again, the lights faltered. Lightning flashed at the windows.

Fosgate grinned. “I think it best you stay the night, old boy. The storm’s not letting up. And besides, you’ve had much too much.”

“Damn you!” Chadwick said. “You’ve no moral ground. You’ve been plying me with alcohol all night. You had no intention of allowing me to leave.”

He seethed. It would take at least an hour on a mild evening to reach home, but on a night like this? He reeled at the vivid recollection of a slippery roadway, an overturned lorry … and what remained of the guardrail where his drunken father’s motorcar shot through on its way to the bottom of the Thames.

He regarded the chess set with disdain. “This won’t work. It won’t.”

“Are you so certain I’m mad?”

Chadwick did not respond; instead, he glanced at the clock. He excused himself momentarily, made a call to his wife on his cell—almost asked her to call the police, thought not to worry her—and returned to the study. “I’ll stay the night,” he said anxiously, reacting to the furious wind. “But I’m not playing that game.”

“Indulge me. Let’s put that Chadwick skepticism to the test.”

“And should I win?”

Fosgate laughed heartily. “That’s the spirit! You are the better player, after all.”

Chadwick’s eyes narrowed.

“Ah, all business,” Fosgate said. “But I suppose all’s fair in chess and war, eh? I defer, then. Should you prevail, the set is yours. Do with it what you will.”

“And should I lose?”

Fosgate laughed. “Should you lose … then this old hunter has found new prey.”

This is madness, Chadwick thought. Still, it was all too clear that Fosgate’s desire far exceeded his ability to resist. The man would badger him until the storm passed, which held no sign of abating. And yet, he rather fancied the chance of winning the bloody thing and tossing it into the Thames. To wipe that smirk off that arrogant face would be priceless.

He took up his drink and finished it. “Fetch us another,” he said stiffly. And at that moment, beyond the windows, beyond this Earth, the gods thundered.

~ 10

Along the west wall sat two wingback chairs. Each faced the other across an Italian marble table, which doubled as a chessboard. Brass British soldiers led by the Duke of Wellington stood at arms, readied for the pewter French commanded by Napoleon.

“Do we have to play right here?” Chadwick said. “I can’t sit next to this window.”

Fosgate drew the drapes. “Satisfied?”

“Not at all.”

With a huff, Fosgate indulged him. It was massive to be sure, yet after some effort, they managed to reposition the board to their seats near the hearth. Fosgate freshened their drinks as Chadwick replaced the chessmen. It was unsettling work, and upon removing it from the case, the black King had nearly slipped from his grasp. If only it had smashed into pieces.

He took up a seat on the white side. The lesser of two evils, he thought.

Fosgate returned with their glasses and smiled at the seating arrangement. “Of course, Chadwick. I suspected as much.” He went to take his seat, but stopped. “My word … in all this excitement, I nearly forgot.”

Fosgate went to his writing desk and opened the side drawer. From it he produced a thick book, and he lumbered back to Chadwick and handed it to him. The Greater London telephone directory.

Taking it, Chadwick looked up, positively puzzled.

“Would you rather we choose someone dear to you?” Fosgate snapped.

Chadwick reeled. Until now, his quite logical mind had disputed all of this as folly. But as he felt the heaviness of the directory in his hands, the reality of what they were about to do struck him with both barrels. And yet, something clicked inside of him. A duality consumed him. Fear, certainly … and morbid curiosity.

He thrust the directory back to Fosgate, who snatched it easily. Ever alert, ever the hunter.

“Oh, come now,” Fosgate snarled. “Empirical research requires established constants and variables. The constants are obvious, set by the rules of chess. The variables—”

“Then why not Frost?”

“All in good time. Now, as I was saying—”

“This has gone far enough. I’ll play you for the damn set. But not for someone’s life.”

Fosgate cleared his throat. He spoke as he did in the boardroom, in that cutting, calculating manner. “The variables … are the unfortunate souls not bright enough to have unlisted numbers.” He flung the book back.

Chadwick nearly fumbled it as he caught it. He steadied himself. His gaze fell upon the dark King, which held all the grotesquerie of a burn victim. Its eyes seemed to pierce his soul like a knife.

He rose. He had every intention of leaving, but Fosgate shoved him solidly at the chest, driving him back into his seat. Stunned, his eyes widened at the distinct cock of a pistol. He looked up, disbelieving, a deadly barrel bearing down on him.

He spied the glass case from where the weapon had come. Empty.

He fetched it while I made the call.

He held no doubt it was loaded. Who knew how long the man had been planning this. He’d even waited for the perfect storm.

Fosgate was grinning. “I could finish you right here and now,” he said matter-of-factly. “But where’s the sport? You know how so I love a challenge. The hunt. Chess is tea for two. A tango.”

“Please,” Chadwick said, his voice trailing off. He flipped open the directory, telling himself this was all a bad dream. Telling himself it wouldn’t work anyway. Heaven help them if it did.

“No peeking,” Fosgate ribbed. The lights failed a moment as the wind wailed.

Dismayed, Chadwick closed his eyes. He took second and even third thoughts, then plunked a finger down on the page. He opened his eyes. Lightning lit up the room. “Stanley, D … 48 Ashwood,” he whispered.

A pair of scissors—no doubt these, too, lifted during those scant few minutes of his call—beckoned when he looked up. His eyes said, Now what?

“Cut out the name,” Fosgate instructed.

Chadwick received the shears. As they passed from Fosgate’s hand to his, the thought of taking them and driving them through the man’s heart stirred him. “Can’t we just write it?”

“Cut,” Fosgate commanded.

Chadwick deferred. He cut along the page between the first and second columns and cut out the name with delicate precision. Fosgate then handed him a pen and instructed him to strike out the name on the flip side of the snippet, which he did, but not before catching a glimpse of the name there: Stewart, Alfred. He wondered if it would be enough, this name-scratching business. Dare they think such folly would protect the man?

Fosgate prodded with the pistol, and Chadwick, grasping only too well, nodded. Setting the first clipping aside, he flipped to another random page, and with but a few careful snips and a scribbling of the pen, offered one Gordon Cooper as a lamb. He presented this one to Fosgate, who took it eagerly, and set the directory on the floor. He mused how fitting it would be if he’d drawn