that it was all a game to her, a means of diversion for a very wealthy young woman at whose feet the whole world lay.
“Alexander, Roderick, Roderick, Alexander,” she said in a singsong voice. “I swear, you are both so handsome and so fascinating, that I don’t know which of you I want to give the most attention. What is a girl to do?” She smiled flirtatiously, then turned and walked away from them, glancing once back over her shoulder.
They had been at sea for five days when, early in the morning as Malcolm was asleep in his stateroom, he felt someone’s hand on his shoulder.
“What?” he said with a start as he jerked awake.
“Malcolm.”
Malcolm saw Alexander sitting on the side of his bed, his eyes gleaming wildly and a look of panic on his face.
“Wake up, Malcolm. Wake up,” Alexander was saying.
“I am awake,” he said. “What is it? What is going on?”
“We need some help.”
“Who needs help?”
“I do. So does Roderick.”
“What do you mean you need help? You need help with what?”
“Maybe you had better come to our stateroom,” Alexander said, referring to the cabin that he and his brother were sharing.
“What time is it?”
“It’s about three o’clock.”
“In the morning?”
“Aye.”
“What are you doing, waking me at this hour?”
“Please, Malcolm, get dressed and come with me,” Alexander said. “We need your help.”
“Yes, you keep saying that.”
Although Malcolm dressed quickly, Alexander kept urging him to hurry. Finally, when he was fully dressed, he left his stateroom and followed Alexander down the corridor, feeling, not only the gentle roll of the ship, but also feeling and hearing the vibration of the steam engine.
“Alexander, what . . .”
“Shhh,” Alexander hissed, laying his finger across his lips.
When they reached the stateroom shared by Alexander and Roderick, Alexander tapped, lightly, on the door.
“Who is it?” a muffled voice called from the other side of the door.
“Roderick, open up.”
The door opened, swinging inward, and Alexander and Malcolm stepped inside. Roderick closed the door quickly.
“What is it? What is this all about? What’s going on, and why is it so dark in here?”
“Turn on the light,” Alexander said.
The
“She is over there,” Roderick said.
“She? Who is—what the hell?” Malcolm gasped.
Lying on one of the two beds, her arms and legs askew, her dress torn asunder to expose her naked body, her face blue, and her eyes bulging, but with her final expression of terror still discernable, was Miriam Phelps.
“My God,” Malcolm said, speaking in quiet shock. “You killed her?”
“We had to, don’t you see?” Roderick asked.
“No, I don’t see. What do you mean, you had to?”
“She was naught but a tease,” Alexander said. “First she said she wanted Roderick, then she said she wanted me, but it was a tease, all along. We brought her here, we gave her a chance to—be with one of us.”
“We even said we didn’t care which one,” Roderick continued. “She could be with Alexander, and I would watch. Or she could be with me, and Alexander would watch.”
“But she didn’t want to be with either one of us, so . . .”
“You raped her?”
“Aye,” Roderick said.
“Which one of you?”
“Both of us,” Alexander said.
