A Synonym for Murder

By Travis Aaron

This thriller is about a series of murders and mysteries that have been committed by a group of 12. They are lured to a tropical island under false pretenses and with the aid of some supernatural abilities, their lies of assassination, affairs, deception and sordid pasts are about to be revealed in a captivating and fast-paced mystery that will have your head spinning trying to figure out who is hiding what secrets.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Nov 13, 2014
• ISBN: 9781312666245

Book preview

A Synonym for Murder

A Synonym For Murder

how far will you go for a story?

Travis Aaron

Copyright © 2014 Travis Aaron

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-312-66624-5

www.travis.tk

DEDICATION

To everyone who has been, or will be there for me, when I need you.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to say thanks to those who gave feedback on the story.

And to @brandydreamer for the for the cover design. Follow him on Instagram.

Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.

- Martin Luther King Jr.

CHAPTER ONE

I pulled a long slender cigarette from its pack and I placed it to my lips. I flicked the lighter and the tip of the cigarette began to glow orange. I pursed my lips and pulled in the smoke from the butt of the cigarette and let it fill up my lungs. Just because I was dead, did not mean that I couldn’t enjoy a cigarette every now and again. I didn’t let those health care professionals stop me from smoking while I was alive, I’d be damned if I stopped smoking just because I died.

I am about to tell a story. So sit down, lean back or lie down… it doesn’t really matter to me… but listen to me well. Being dead, I was in the best situation to tell the story. Because it is only when I died that I was able to put all the pieces together of the story I am about to tell. I had laid all the pieces out on the table, but there was no glue to hold them together. Now that I was in a place that allowed me freer intrusion into the lives of the people that walk the earth, was I now able to fill the gaps between the jigsaw pieces. Some things were so simple; it almost made me laugh.

Per my instructions, twelve letters were sent out to select persons, who shared something in common; they were all writers. But they shared more than just their profession. Hidden deep beneath the layers of diplomacy and righteousness, all of these twelve persons hid a secret or two; a secret or two which intertwined and connected each person to the other. Whether they knew that they were in possession of this classified information is another story.

Between reloading ink cartridges into stubborn printers and scratching at heads for some semblance of an interesting storyline, twelve writers went to check their mail that day. As they opened the heavy card envelope and pulled out the slick invitation, several thoughts crossed their minds; that they were finally getting recognition for the novels they had slaved laboriously over the span of their lives with no façade of gratitude presented to them by their readers.

They had thought that they were getting a week’s all-expenses paid vacation to a hotel, and who would be mad enough to turn down a free vacation? They probably, although to a diminished extent, did think that they would gain access to fellow writers who they could network and collaborate with and attend several lectures to refine and hone their storytelling aptitude, which was the reason the 1st Annual Writers Convention was being held in the first place.

But what none of them thought, as they sheathed the letter back into its envelope, was that maybe this was an elaborate ruse that someone had cooked up to lure them to interact with each other and let the plan unfurl that would unravel their secrets. The secrets they held closest to their hearts and deepest in their souls, were about to be revealed, but they had no room in their minds to even consider this infinitesimal possibility.

Amongst one of the twelve writers who opened their letters that morning, was the one who was going to murder me. Yes, you heard correctly; before the end of the conference, I was going to die. Back then, even if I had known about this possibility, I would have let things proceed exactly as it had. Because everything happens for a reason, and if it happened so, who was I to argue with the universe?

In secretly hosting the convention, I had demonstrated the ultimate dedication to the profession I was in. Oftentimes there was a phrase uttered amongst those most dedicated to the profession of writing; a catchphrase of sorts: How far would you be willing to go for a story?

Indeed, I had done quite a great deal for many of the stories I have written. I was living testament to the fact that writers would go to any length to get a story. And of the twelve getting ready to attend the convention, I was sure that I was not the only one who was willing to push the limits to push out our next publication.

There is a secret I had been hiding for quite some time. No one ever knew who I was. I had published many a series of wildly popular novels and standalone books. Each and every release was an event - rife with promotions, displays and interviews. The only thing missing from the events was me.

I had never particularly felt the need to attach myself to the brand. I was perfectly happy living in incognito whilst the glory and fame of the literary empire I had built fell to the pseudonym that I had used whenever I wanted to write something. Consequently the face of my fame and glory was that of my agent since it was he who attended every interview and event in my place. He was the only one who knew my true identity. To the rest of the world, I was Ward Glover, famous author and billionaire.

I had no particular need for money; I had no particular need for fame. The only need I particularly longed for was the need to write. My stories were not the simple ones conjured up from the imagination. They were based on true stories, or true people. I knew things about these people that no one else knew. Perhaps it was due to my excellent sleuthing ability. Perhaps it was due to something more. But in my lengthy career as the literary equivalent of a supermodel, perhaps the most important and valuable thing I had learnt, was that indeed the truth was stranger than fiction.

Upon my request, my agent had sent out the invitations to the dozen writers I had named. He had asked no questions, and I had not expected him to. Over the course of my long writing career, I often had the need to ask him to carry out various seemingly-peculiar requests, but he knew that overall by and large it was to facilitate my novel writing; although this often involved some unsavory aspects, anything from blackmail, stalking and bugging of telephones to setting up video-cameras to spy on people.

And then there were some things that I knew that I was not supposed to know or know without knowing how I knew. This always provided a nice burst of insight into my novels or a storyline that I wrote involving people who did not know that I knew their stories. This was another reason my pseudonym served useful as I was able to write without fear of vindication from members of the public for revealing their stories in the public domain. Of course I cared not in the least what the public thought of me, but I did not want my name and face to be contaminated with the scourge of scrutiny that some infamous authors or reviewers got when they were attending an event or experience which was sure to receive a low rating.

My sleuthing often carried me to countries around the world, investigating and exposing the interesting and complicated lives of people. Do not confuse me with the paparazzi. I was not interesting in getting the first pictures of the babies of the famous couples. I had gotten around enough to know that sometimes the best stories came from the ordinary man and the people that appeared the most regular, often had the most dangerous, albeit interesting secrets.

Following the arrival of their letters, the authors made the arrangements for their departure. They had never heard of that country before, but after a quick internet search, they found that the country Roseport was a tropical island in the Belcoast islands. If they were nursing some indecision about leaving the country for a week, when they discovered that their Writer’s Convention was going to be hosted on a tropical island, their clothes and suitcases were packed without a second thought.

So twelve fellow writers packed their clothes, a couple favourite novels, medication and cameras and any other gadgets and necessities into their various suitcases, lugged them into the trunks of their car, their friend’s car or the taxi they hired and drove towards the airport with the included plane tickets and instructions. So carefree and happy they were, pulling up with great expectation to the airports. And thus began the unwitting journeys towards their demise.

* * *

The twelve had arrived at different times, on different flights, having come from different countries. Rob Winters had left his wife and two kids at home, to come to the convention.

His decision to accept this trip and leave them behind was giving him a feeling of uneasiness. It brought back up emotions attached to some memories which he had long since tried to suppress. He felt guilty having to leave them behind. He did not like being apart from them.

The truth was that his past was blotched. And one of those blotches was particularly big. It was something he was ashamed of having done. He needed to be with them every second of every day, to make up for these unsavory things he had done behind their backs.

He had left his country about lunchtime. By the time the plane was flying over Roseport, the sky had darkened enough such that he could not see the coastline of the island beneath them, or what he imagined to be crashing waves beneath. But they had clearly started approaching because the plane had begun its gradual descent and the seatbelts sign had been reignited. It was a shame that his first trip to an island, with abundant white-sand beaches and surrounding oceans was when the island has already been swamped in darkness.

But the trip was going to be for a whole week and they were surrounded by beaches, so he was sure to get a glimpse of them during his stay. He was feeling guilty for being away from his family, but he couldn’t beat himself up forever. He was trying to make amends with his family, but the only way for him to forgive himself was if he could learn to move past it.

Following the departure, he found a taxi-driver in the reception area, holding a sign with Rob’s name on it. Although from the small flights and the small airport, Rob doubted whether the sign was actually necessary. The airport was small and focused more on functionality than aesthetics. There were no overwhelming visual designs or first world technological systems. It was minimalistic and obviously built with project cost in mind. From the moment he had stepped off the airway and walked through a small cluster of duty-free shops, he was battered with one advertisement after another of exciting events, hotels and activities to partake in for the duration of the trip.

But Rob didn’t bat too much of an eye towards the adverts; he already had accommodation and activities taken care of. He hoped that the driver knew where the hotel was, because he did not think to take a mental note of its name or location. He would have to try to enjoy himself these next few days without his mind being heavy from the absence of his family. But judging from the brochures, posters and large-screen adverts he had seen so far, as bad as he would feel afterwards, he did not think he would have much trouble indulging in a little water sports or down time.

Yuh come fuh the convention mista? the crude island man choked out in his rough tropical accent.

Yes, Rob affirmed, slightly taken aback from the think accent that had come from the man’s mouth.

I dunno if iz true but ah hearin’ this go be ah ev’ry-year ting, the man replied. When Rob didn’t reply, the driver continued, Ah hope so ‘cuz this deal ah get to shuttle allyuh from the airport was ah good pull out fuh meh.

They walked towards the man’s taxi. The islander heaved Rob’s suitcases into the trunk. He slammed it down and then went behind the wheel of the car to wait for Rob to get in. The car was not what Rob was accustomed to: the steering wheel was on the right side. And when the car pulled off, he understood why. It took him a while to understand why the driver