by Alex Kava
He tossed the bottle aside and that’s when Maty noticed he was wearing gloves. And in his other hand he carried a knife, a wide-bladed hunting knife that he held down at his side as if he didn’t even realize he had it there.
Panic forced Maty to step backward, slowly away from him until the small of her back pressed into the countertop. Trapped. There was no where for her to go.
“I don’t understand,” she found herself saying out loud. It only seemed to make William grin more.
“Of course you don’t. You’ve been so self involved in your own stressed out madness that you haven’t noticed anything or anyone around you. Where’s your pill bottle?”
“But if you haven’t been happy – .”
“Where the hell are your pills, Madeline?”
In two steps he grabbed her by the hair and shoved the knife to her throat. His breath hot in her face, his eyes wide. He smelled of sweat and mud. He looked like a madman.
“It was you. Last night in the woods,” she whispered and felt the metal press against each word. “Why?”
This time he laughed.
“I had to make sure you took them, that it looked like you’d gone over the edge. Everyone was supposed to be gone but that boy ranger was still here. He saw me.”
“Oh my God. William. What did you do?”
“The sonofabitch would have ruined it all. Then after the storm when I came inside and found you still breathing . . .” He dragged out the last word like it disgusted him.
“You’re the one who took the key from the park office door.”
“I knew you’d stop at work. It gave me plenty of time to get here.”
“You called me from here. The train whistle . . .”
“Make it easier on both of us, Maty. Where are your pills?”
He yanked her head against the cupboard and she thought she might black out.
“Okay,” she managed. “Stop, just let me get them.”
He let go. Shoved her away and backed up.
Maty rubbed at the back of her head and the tangled knot of hair. She eased herself toward the other end of the counter, hanging on for fear her knees might give out. She kept an eye on William even as she opened the zipper of her backpack and dug her hand inside. He stayed put, waiting, looking tired, impatient. She hardly recognized this man, his hair tousled and face dirty. He wasn’t her husband anymore. No, he was some deranged madman who had killed the park superintendent and was about to kill her.
When Maty pulled the Colt revolver from her backpack William’s eyes grew wide. Before he could react, before he could move, Maty shot him twice in the chest. The blasts made her jump each time.
She didn’t cry. She didn’t scream. Her hands weren’t even shaking.
She laid the revolver on the counter. Stepped back, opened the refrigerator and poured herself another glass of orange juice. This time she sat down. She wondered if this was what it felt like for her grandfather when the madness took over.
She sipped the juice and said to herself, “Now, where to dump the body.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE: “After Dark” was first published in 2011 in the anthology, “First Thrills” edited by Lee Child which included twenty-four other short stories by some of the best thriller writers in the business. It was co-written with Deb Carlin.
RECKLESS CREED
Chapter 1
Chicago
Tony Briggs coughed up blood, then wiped his mouth with his shirtsleeve. This was bad. Although it was nothing he couldn’t handle. He’d been through worse. Lots worse. But still, they didn’t tell him he’d get this sick. He was beginning to think the bastards had double-crossed him.
He tapped out, “fine mess I got myself into,” on his cell phone and hit SEND before he changed his mind.
The text message wasn’t part of his instructions. Not part of the deal. He didn’t care. So what if the watchers found out. What could they do to him now? He already felt like crap. They couldn’t make him feel much worse.
He tossed the phone into the garbage can along with the few brochures he’d picked up throughout the day. His itinerary read like a sightseeing family vacation. Or in his case, something presented by one of those make-a-wish charities – one final trip, all expenses paid.
He laughed at that and ended up in a coughing fit. Blood sprayed the flat screen TV and even the wall behind. He didn’t like leaving the mess for the hotel housekeeping staff. But it was a little too late for that. Especially since his instructions included touching everything he could throughout the day. The list rattled in his head: light switches, elevator buttons, restaurant menus, remote control, and escalator handrails.
Earlier that morning at the McDonald’s – before the cough, just before the fever spiked and he still had a bit of bravado along with an appetite – he felt his first tinge of apprehension. He’d taken his tray and stopped at the condiment counter.
Touch as many surfaces as possible.
That’s what he’d been told. Germs could live on a hard surface for up to eighteen hours. He may have screwed up a lot of things in his life but he could still follow instructions.
That’s what he’d been thinking when he felt a tap on his elbow.
“Hey, mister, could you please hand me two straws?”
The kid was six, maybe seven with nerdy glasses, the thick black frames way too big for his face. He kept shoving at them, the motion second nature. The kid reminded Tony immediately of his best friend, Jason. They had grown up together since they were six years old. Same schools. Same football team. Joined the Army together. Even came back from Afghanistan, both screwed up in one way or another. Tony was the athlete. Jason was the brains. Smart and pushy even at six. But always following Tony around.
Old four eyes.
“Whadya doing now?” was Jason’s favorite catch phrase.
In grade school they went through a period where Jason mimicked everything Tony did. In high school the kid bulked up just so he could be on the football team, right alongside Tony. In the back of his mind he knew Jason probably joined the Army only because Tony wanted to. And look where it got them.
Tony shoved at the guilt. And suddenly at that moment he found himself hoping that Jason never found out what a coward he really was.
“Mister,” the kid waited with his hand outstretched.
Tony caught himself reaching for the damned straw dispenser then stopped short, fingertips inches away.
“Get your own damned straws,” he told the kid. “You’re not crippled.”
Then he turned and left without even getting his own straw or napkin. Without touching a single thing on the whole frickin’ condiment counter. In fact, he took his tray and walked out, shouldering the door open so he wouldn’t have to touch it either. He dumped the tray and food in a nearby trashcan. The kid had unnerved him so much it took him almost an hour to move on.
Now back in his hotel room, sweat trickled down his face. He wiped at his forehead with the same sleeve he’d used on his mouth.
The fever was something he’d expected. The blurred vision was a surprise.
No, it was more than blurred vision. The last hour or so he knew he’d been having hallucinations. He thought he saw one of his old drill sergeants in the lobby of the John Hancock building. But he’d been too nauseated from the observatory to check it out. Still, he remembered to touch every single button before he got out of the elevator. Nauseated and weak-kneed.
And he was embarrassed.
His mind might not be what it once was thanks to what the doctors called traumatic brain injury, but he was proud that he’d kept his body lean and strong when so many of his buddies had come back without limbs. Now the muscle fatigue set in and it actually hurt to breathe.
Just then Tony heard a click in the hotel room. It came from somewhere behind him. It sounded like the door.
The room’s entrance had a small alcove for the minibar and coffeemaker. He couldn’t see the door without crossing the room.
> “Is anybody there?” he asked as he stood up out of the chair.
Was he hallucinating again or had a shadow moved?
Suddenly everything swirled and tipped to the right. He leaned against the room service cart. He’d ordered it just like his watchers had instructed him to do when he got back to his room. Nevermind that he hadn’t been able to eat a thing. Even the scent of fresh strawberries made his stomach roil.
No one was there.
Maybe the fever was making him paranoid. It certainly made him feel like he was burning up from the inside. He needed to cool down. Get some fresh air.
Tony opened the patio door and immediately shivered. The small cement balcony had a cast-iron railing, probably one of the original fixtures that the hotel decided to keep when renovating – something quaint and historic.
The air felt good. Cold against his sweat-drenched body, but good. Made him feel alive. And he smiled at that. Funny how being this sick could make him feel so alive. He’d come close to being killed in Afghanistan several times, knew the exhilaration after-wards.
He stepped out into the night. His head was still three pounds too heavy, but the swirling sensation had eased a bit. And he could breathe finally without hacking up blood.
Listening to the rumble and buzz of the city below he realized if he wanted to, there’d be nothing to this. He had contemplated his own death many times since coming home but never once had he imagined this.
Suddenly he realized it’d be just like stepping out of a C130.
Only without a parachute.
Nineteen stories made everything look like a miniature world below. Matchbox cars. The kind he and Jason had played with. Fought over. Traded. Shared.
And that’s when his second wave of nausea hit him.
Maybe he didn’t have to finish this. He didn’t even care any more whether they paid him or not. Maybe it wasn’t too late to get to an emergency room. They could probably give him something. Then he’d just go home. There were easier ways to make a few bucks.
But as he started to turn around he felt a shove. Not the wind. Strong hands. A shadow. His arms flailed trying to restore his balance.
Another shove.
His fingers grabbed for the railing but his body was already tipping. The metal dug into the small of his back. His vision blurred with streaks of light. His ears filled with the echo of a wind tunnel. The cold air surrounded him.
No second chances. He was already falling.
Chapter 2
Conecuh National Forest Just north of the Alabama/Florida state line
Ryder Creed’s T-shirt stuck to his back. His hiking boots felt like cement blocks, caked with red clay. The air grew heavier, wet and stifling. The scent of pine mixed with the gamy smell of exertion from both man and dog. This deep in the woods even the birds were different, the drilling of the red-cockades woodpecker the only sound to interrupt the continuous buzz of mosquitoes.
He was grateful for the long-sleeved shirt and the kerchief around his neck as well as the one around Grace’s. The fabric had been soaked in a special concoction that his business partner, Hannah, had mixed up, guaranteed to repel bugs. Hannah joked that one more ingredient and maybe it’d even keep them safe from vampires.
In a few hours it would be nighttime in the forest, and deep in the sticks, as they called it, on the border of Alabama and Florida, there were enough reasons to drive a man to believe in vampires. The kudzu climbed and twisted up the trees so thick it looked like green netting. There were places the sunlight couldn’t squeeze down through the branches.
Their original path was quickly becoming overgrown. Thorny vines grabbed at Creed’s pant-legs, and he worried they were ripping into Grace’s short legs. He was already second-guessing bringing the Jack Russell terrier instead of one of his bigger dogs, but Grace was the best air scent dog he had in a pack of dozens. And she was scampering along enjoying the adventure, making her way easily through the tall long-leaf pines that grew so close Creed had to sidestep in spots.
They had less than an hour until sunset, and yet the federal agent from Atlanta was still questioning Creed.
“You don’t think you need more than the one dog?”
Agent Lawrence Taber had already remarked several times about how small Grace was, and that she was “kind of scrawny.” Creed heard him whisper to Sheriff Wylie that he was “pretty sure Labs or German shepherds were the best trackers.”
Creed was used to it. He knew that neither he nor his dogs were what most law enforcement officers expected. He’d been training and handling dogs for over seven years. His business, Crime-Scents K9, had a waiting list for his dogs. Yet people expected him to be older, and his dogs to be bigger.
Grace was actually one of his smallest dogs, a scrappy brown and white Jack Russell terrier. Creed had discovered her abandoned at end of his long driveway. When he found her she was skin and bones but sagging where she had recently been nursing puppies. Locals had gotten into the habit of leaving their unwanted dogs at the end of Creed’s fifty-acre property. It wasn’t the first time he had seen a female dog dumped and punished when the owner was simply too cheap to get her spayed.
Hannah didn’t like that people took advantage of Creed’s soft heart. But what no one – not even Hannah – understood was that the dogs Creed rescued were some of his best air scent trackers. Skill was only a part of the training. Bonding with the trainer was another. His rescued dogs trusted him unconditionally and were loyal beyond measure. They were eager to learn and anxious to please. And Grace was one of his best.
“Working multiple dogs at the same time can present problems,” he finally told the agent. “Competition between the dogs. False alerts. Overlapping grids. Believe me, one dog will be more than efficient.”
Creed kept his tone matter of fact for Grace’s sake. Emotion runs down the leash. Dogs could detect their handler’s mood, so Creed always tried to keep his temper in check even when guys like Agent Taber started to piss him off.
He couldn’t help wonder why Tabor was here, but he kept it to himself. Creed wasn’t law enforcement. He was hired to do a job and had no interest in questioning jurisdiction or getting involved in the pissing contests that local and federal officials often got into.
“I can’t think she’d run off this far,” Sheriff Wylie said.
He was talking about the young woman they were looking for. The reason they were out here searching. But now Creed realized the sheriff was starting to question his judgment, too, even though the two of them had worked together plenty of times.
Creed ignored both men as best he could and concentrated on Grace. He could hear her breathing getting more rapid. She started to hold her nose higher and he tightened his grip on the leash. She had definitely entered a scent cone but Creed had no idea if it was secondary or primary. All he could smell was the river, but that wasn’t what had Grace’s attention.
“How long has she been gone?” Creed asked Sheriff Wylie.
“Since the night before last.”
Creed had been told that Izzy Donner was nineteen, a recovering drug addict who was getting her life back on track. She had enrolled in college part-time and was even looking forward to a trip to Atlanta she had planned with friends. Creed still wasn’t quite sure why her family had panicked. A couple nights out of touch didn’t seem out of ordinary for a teenager.
“Tell me again why you think she ran off into the forest. Are you sure she wasn’t taken against her will?”
Seemed like a logical reason that a federal agent might be involved if the girl had been taken. The two men exchanged a glance. Creed suspected they were withholding information from him.
“Why would it matter?” Tabor finally asked. “If your dog is any good it should still be able to find her, right?”
“It would matter because there’d be another person’s scent.”
“We had a tip called in,” Wylie admitted but Tabor shot him a look and cut him off from saying anything else.<
br />
Before Creed could push for more, Grace started straining at the end of the leash. Her breathing had increased, her nose and whiskers twitched. He knew she was headed for the river.
“Slow down a bit, Grace,” he told her.
“Slow down” was something a handler didn’t like telling his dog. But sometimes the drive could take over and send a dog barreling through dangerous terrain. He’d heard of working dogs scraping their pads raw, so focused and excited about finding the scent that would reward them.
Grace kept pulling. Creed’s long legs were moving fast to keep up. The tangle of vines threatened to trip him while Grace skipped between them, jumping over fallen branches and straining at the end of her leash. He focused on keeping up with her and not letting go.
Only now did Creed notice that Agent Tabor and Sheriff Wylie were trailing farther behind. He didn’t glance back but could hear their voices becoming more muffled, interspersed with some curses as they tried to navigate the prickly underbrush.
Finally Grace slowed down. Then she stopped. But the little dog was still frantically sniffing the air. Creed could see and hear the river five feet away. He watched Grace and waited. Then suddenly the dog looked up to find his eyes and stared at him.
This was their signal. Creed knew the dog wasn’t trying to determine what direction to go next, nor was she looking to him for instructions. Grace was telling him she had found their target. That she knew exactly where it was but she didn’t want to go any closer.
Something was wrong.
“What is it?” Sheriff Wylie asked while he and Tabor approached, trying to catch their breaths and keep a safe distance.
“I think she’s in the water,” Creed said.
“What do you mean she’s in the water,” Tabor asked.
But Wylie understood. “Oh crap.”
“Grace, stay,” Creed told the dog and dropped the leash.
