Thriller 2

by Clive Cussler

“Nope.”

  “Well, I know you’re supposed to write from what you know, but I’m sure your fertile imagination can flesh this out. So, what do you think?”

  “Well, it’s not really my kind of story. I write thrillers, not horror tales.”

  “But I’ve read your novels, and I think it is your kind of story. Just that the antagonist is a ghost, not the standard villain.”

  Maybe that was his problem: all his villains were standard.

  He nodded and glanced around the food hall. Students were scattered at different tables, some of them reading, some working at their laptops. He didn’t mind them, but he was tired of teaching kids how to write. Most had never written fiction before. And most made their first forays with dumb horror tales, hoping to be the next Stephen King. And most had zero talent. Like this woman. But she had money. Enough to buy his way out of here for a couple of years. And he was certain that if he didn’t sign, she’d find someone else who would.

  “I also think you’d enjoy working on it.” She nudged the contract toward him.

  Doubtful, he thought. And for a long moment he stared at it. Then he picked up the pen and signed.

  And a small rat uncurled in his gut.

  By six that evening, he was back home, thinking that this might turn out to be the toughest twenty thousand dollars he’d ever make. No, it wasn’t the fact that he didn’t write ghost stories. Nor was her story line too much of a challenge. As he sipped his second Scotch, he told himself: Coincidence. Dumb, blind coincidence.

  Twenty-four years ago, while doing grad work in L.A., he had gotten a young undergraduate pregnant. They had dated less than a year while he finished his M.F.A. They had talked about marriage, but when a teaching post presented itself, he broke off the relationship and moved back to the East Coast. He gave Jessica some money to get an abortion, but she had refused. He left no forwarding address and never heard from her again, uncertain what had happened to her or her baby. Yes, he felt guilty. But he was also young, selfish and scared. And he couldn’t turn down the job because it paid well and would allow him the time to write his first novel, which became an instant bestseller.

  As he lay in bed staring into the black, it all came back to him. But did he really want to be shacked up for the next ten or twelve months slogging through that old muck?

  But one hundred thousand dollars?

  Two hours later he was still rolling around his mattress.

  Maybe it was his inherent paranoia crossed with his writer’s imagination, but suddenly he wondered if this Lauren Grant was really an innocent little rich kid who just wanted her name on a book.

  He got out of bed and went to his laptop where he Googled Lauren J. Grant. A common enough name, but not a single hit came up. He tried other search engines and databases, and nothing. She had no Web site. No entry in Facebook, MySpace or any blog site. She had never registered a book or movie review anywhere under her name. Nothing. In the vast digital universe where most people had left evidence of their existence, she did not exist. It was as if she were a ghost.

  The next day, feeling like roadkill from the lack of sleep, he went to the registrar’s office and got a clerk to give him copies of Lauren J. Grant’s application. While grades were confidential, their application forms were not. She was from Philadelphia. Her parents were Susan and John Grant—she was a real estate agent, he the owner of a trucking firm. Lauren was an only child. She had graduated from Prescott High School. All looked legitimate.

  But that evening, back home at his laptop, anxiety was setting bats loose in his chest. The more he tried to work on the synopsis, the more distracted he became. What if she were some kind of writer stalker—a delusional nutcake, like the assistant who murdered that singer, Selena?

  Or worse, the crazed groupie who shot John Lennon dead after getting his autograph?

  Or worse still, his own Annie Wilkes, like in that story Misery?

  It’s your ol’fertile imagination getting the best of you, he told himself. Nonetheless, he went back online and found a Web site for Prescott High School. But probably because of the fear of pedophiles, students were not identified by name. However, using different search engines he located a site for the publisher of the school’s yearbooks and ordered one for the year she had graduated. He then checked the online Yellow Pages and, with relief, he found an address for her parents that matched what she had written on the application. Your imagination was always much richer than your real life, he told himself and went to bed.

  Over the next several days he threw himself into the synopsis. By the end of the next week, he had the story line filled out and an ending that satisfied him. So, he e-mailed Lauren a copy, humming for that twenty-grand advance.

  Within the hour she called him. “Geoffrey, it’s good but the ending is not there yet. You’re letting him off too easily.”

  He didn’t mind the presumptuous use of his first name as much as her sudden authority: this little twit wasn’t satisfied with his synopsis. He resented that almost as much as he resented his need for her money. “Twentysomething years have passed,” he said. “Do ghosts hold grudges that long?”

  “In this story they do.”

  “Well, frankly, I think the ghost bit is silly. I told you I don’t write ghost stories. I don’t even read them. And I don’t believe in them. They’re cheesy gimmicks.”

  There was a long, uncomfortable silence filled only with the hush of the open phone line. “So what do you recommend?” she finally said.

  “That it’s the grown daughter who seeks him out.”

  “And then what?”

  “There are some tense moments, but in the end they reconcile. He realizes how callous and irresponsible he had been, but he’s a grown man now and has reformed and wants to bond with his long-lost daughter.” He knew how trite that sounded, but it was the best he was willing to offer.

  But she didn’t approve. “I like the idea of the grown daughter replacing the ghost as an agent of justice,” she said. “But it’s got to be intense. I want his guilt and fear to be palpable. And I don’t want forgiveness.”

  Suddenly she was all business and holding hostage his twenty thousand for an ending that was making him uncomfortable.

  “And it has to be a surprise,” she continued. “A surprise ending and a Grand Guignol.”

  “I’ll see what I come up with.”

  “Okay,” she said. “But I want blood.”

  The rat stirred in his gut again. “But why such harsh justice?”

  “Because blood debts must be paid.”

  And the rat took a nip.

  For another six days he worked on the synopsis, grabbing a few writing hours between classes. But that Friday classes were cancelled because of a freak snowstorm, producing lightning and thunder. Global warming, the radio said. So he took advantage of the day off and wrote without interruption. By early evening he had exhausted himself and downed a few glasses of Scotch to relax. He thought about going to bed early and getting up around four the next morning to continue working.

  That’s when the FedEx delivery man came by with a package. It was the Prescott High School yearbook. He tore through the portrait pages. Yes, there was a Lauren Grant, with a few school clubs and activities listed. But no portrait photo. Nor was she in group shots. Maybe she was sick and missed the photo sessions.

  At the moment, he really didn’t care. His head was soupy from exhaustion and alcohol, so he went to bed, satisfied that he had an ending that made sense—one that should satisfy her. She wanted the guy’s death, so he gave him a weak heart. In the middle of the night he thinks he sees a ghost and dies of fright. Contrived, yes. And if she didn’t like it, fuck it! It was the best he could come up with. So he e-mailed it to her and went to bed, thinking, I don’t have blood on my hands. Jessica could be alive and well today. I just didn’t want to deal with her or the baby. I was just a kid. No way I should pay for that. Nor for cheating on Maggie.

  To rout the rabble in h
is head, he downed two sleeping pills and slipped into a dreamless oblivion.

  It was a little after midnight when his phone rang. Through the furriness of his brain he heard the answering machine go on in the other room and a muffled female voice leave a message he couldn’t make out. After several minutes of lying in the dark, he got up, went to the next room and hit the play button.

  “Hi, Geoff, it’s Lauren. I received your new ending and, frankly, it doesn’t work. I’m really sorry, but it’s still too weak. However, I think I’ve got the ending we’ve been looking for. Sorry about the hour, but I’m leaving first thing in the morning for the holidays and I want to share it with you in person. So, I’ll be right over.”

  She clicked off, and when he tried to retrieve her number to call back, the message read Unavailable. She had called from an unlisted number. Jesus! It was past midnight. And why the hell didn’t she just e-mail it?

  Suddenly his mind was a fugue. What if she wasn’t coming over simply to share her idea?

  But another voice cut in: Get a grip, man. You’re letting your booze-and-Xanax-primed imagination get the best of you. That and the freak storm.

  But what if she was an imposter who knew about Jessica and was out to get him? The best possible retribution.

  But to what end? Surely not blackmail. She was loaded, and he was broke.

  Write about what you know.

  Make the guilt and fear palpable.

  Her words shot through his brain like an electric arc. She was his metaphorical revenant. And his penance was having to flesh out his own guilt. His own revenge. She didn’t like it, and she was coming with the perfect payback.

  No way! Impossible.

  So is this freak thunder-and-lightning snowstorm.

  No!

  Maybe this was all Maggie’s doing. In a drunken moment years ago he had told her about Jessica. What if all three of them were in collusion and they concocted this scheme, recruiting this Lauren Grant or whatever her name was—a hit woman to get back for Jessie, for his cheating on Maggie, for all his indiscretions against women?

  Even more far-fetched, he told himself. Maggie was happily involved with another guy and didn’t give a shit about him anymore. And Jessica could be dead for all he knew.

  Outside the landscape lit up as if by strobe lights, and a moment later boulders rumbled across the sky. He stared through the window as lightning turn the stripped black trees behind the house into an X-rayed forest. As he watched and waited for the thunder, another thought cut across him mind like a shark fin. One that made all the sense in the world.

  Because he was bad. Because he was selfish.

  Because blood debts must be paid.

  Suddenly he felt his gorge rise and he shot to the toilet where he flopped to his knees and threw up the contents of his stomach. As he hung over the bowl, gagging, the bathroom light began to flicker. The power lines. Every time Carleton experienced a heavy snow, sections of the town got hit with a brownout.

  He wiped his mouth and flushed the toilet when he heard the doorbell ring. Jesus! He shot back into the bedroom. He was tearing through his bureau drawers, underwear and pullovers spilling to the floor, when he heard something from downstairs.

  “Geoffrey.”

  She was inside. Had he forgotten to lock the door after the FedEx man left?

  “Geoffrey, I’m here.”

  He did not respond.

  “Geoffrey?”

  Suddenly the lights flickered again. Then they blinked out. Black. The place was dead black. Not a stray photon in the room. Not even any light seepage from the outside. The whole neighborhood was out.

  “Geoffrey, please come down.”

  He heard himself whimper, frozen in black, completely disoriented in his own bedroom, unable to move.

  “I know you’re there.”

  The next moment, the lights flickered back on.

  “Come down and see what I’ve got.”

  He didn’t answer. His brain still felt stunned.

  “Geoffrey.”

  The lights were back on, and he took several deep breaths to compose himself.

  “Shall I come up?”

  “No.”

  “In the living room.”

  After a few moments, he felt centered again and crept his way out of the bedroom and down, the creaking of the stairs sounding like bones snapping. The only other sound was that of the furnace kicking on. At the bottom, the foyer overhead burned. The living room was still dark because the lamps had not been turned on. He inched his way to the entrance and braced himself against the frame.

  She was in there, standing by the dead fireplace. Her long black shearling defining her form in negative. “Surprise.”

  His forehead was an aspic of fear. “I know what you want,” he whispered.

  “What?”

  “I know what you’re planning.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes.”

  Her voice was barely audible. Over her shoulder hung her case. He could not see her hands. But in the foyer light he could see the white oval of her face. A weird grin distorted her features.

  Satisfaction. Fulfillment. Retribution.

  “I didn’t think you’d guess.” She removed the shoulder bag and began to open it.

  “I know who you are,” he said. His fingers were nearly bloodless with cold. “I know.”

  “Of course, but you can’t imagine—”

  But she never finished her sentence. Without thought, he pulled the gun from his back pocket and shot her three times. She collapsed to the floor without a sound.

  He snapped on the lamp. The bullets had hit her face, reducing it to a bloodied mess.

  He pulled the shoulder bag from under her and tore it open.

  Inside was his copy of the fully executed contract and clipped to it a bank check for $20,000. Also hard-bound copies of his books that she had wanted him to autograph for her and her parents for Christmas next week. And a sheet with her ending: He takes his own life.

  His neighbors must have heard gunshots, because sometime later he heard sirens wailing their approach.

  As he sat there, looking down at the blasted red pulp of her face, he thought, Well, we got our bloody surprise ending.

  Then he shot himself in the head.

  KATHLEEN ANTRIM

  With her speculative thriller Capital Offense, Kathleen Antrim leveraged an intimate knowledge of today’s political landscape to send tremors through the Washington beltway and her readers. Unafraid of ruffling feathers attached to some very powerful government arms, Kathleen’s work as an award-winning journalist gave her a firsthand look at the mechanisms of official power, and insight into where they might steer our future.

  A dystopian tomorrow is under investigation in “Through a Veil Darkly,” a timely story that taps into our secret fears and hidden biases. Kathleen shows us how a tense political climate can evolve into an environment where even murder can be justified and patriotic.

  THROUGH A VEIL DARKLY

  It’s time to kill my husband. Izaan Bekkar. The forty-eighth president of the United States.

  I suppose assassination is the correct term. No matter. It’s my responsibility. Once done, I’ll be a hero. Go figure. Only in America, where killing for religious reasons is deemed sacrilegious. Hypocrites, every damn one of them.

  I’m alone now, sitting in my room. Outside, trees bare as brooms claw at my window, just as Izaan’s deception scrapes at my raw conscience. A winter wind rattles the thick pane of glass. My only comfort comes from thoughts of retribution and the monotonous drip…drip…drip of a leaky faucet. I’ve listened to that torturous sound ever since Izaan locked me up. It’s all I have for entertainment. I’ve noticed that its pitch is different at night—more baritone—than in the afternoon, when the water sings like a soprano.

  Interesting what we notice when alone.

  A digital clock reads 4:49 a.m.

  Eleven minutes before the morning call to prayer.
Five hours and eleven minutes before my meeting with Dr. Truman North. Fourteen hours and eleven minutes until lights out and another sleepless night.

  There are people, like the self-righteous Dr. North, who want me to accept their version of my predicament. But I silently refuse, and play along. I’ll do anything to guarantee my release from this hell.

  The key is the burqa.

  My life didn’t start in a burqa.

  But it may end in one.

  I stood backstage, listening, wearing a navy St. John suit that Izaan bought for me.

  “America is on the brink of destruction,” Izaan boomed to a packed auditorium.

  Network and cable news cameras focused on his keen blue eyes and crisp, angular features. “Global warming. Oil dependence. Nuclear war. America needs leadership she can believe in.”

  Izaan ran his life and his campaign on high-octane fear. Constituents guzzled his message. When he swerved for emphasis, they leaned into his turn. He’d brake for effect, and they’d relax. He’d race his cadence, their hearts seemed to pound.

  “That’s why, at your insistence, I’m announcing my candidacy for president of the United States.”

  The crowd roared their approval.

  He beamed, pausing for effect, his ego swelling from their admiration. Like a snake charmer he wooed them, just as he’d wooed me years before.

  After a few moments, the crowd calmed.

  “It gives me great pleasure to introduce you to the love of my life. My wife. My partner. Sylvia Bekkar.”

  I dutifully walked onto the stage and gripped his hand. Strobes flashed. He raised our clasped fingers high in the air. My heart soared at his touch. Gentle and loving. Together we left the stage and greeted constituents at the rope line. Afterward, as I tumbled over the edge of false impressions into a cold reality, staffers swept me out of the way.

  “You ooze charisma,” the campaign manager told Izaan, patting him on the back.

  I watched as Izaan pushed past him and headed for the campaign bus. And so it went, stop after stop, month after month. Izaan’s poll numbers rose. My spirits fell. Slowly, Izaan’s mask of confident composure shattered under the pressure. Nervous glances over his shoulder escalated once we were issued Secret Service.