Big Three-Thriller Bundle Box Collection

by Gordon Kessler

  Outside, a car approached, its headlights shining through the curtains as it turned the corner and drove slowly by. I rose and glimpsed through the narrow parting in the drapes. It was another patrol car. It pulled up past my yard and parked. As I watched, I realized the Makarov pistol Michelle had pulled on me was still lying near the front walk, its small black frame clearly visible in the snow. I didn’t know where she’d gotten it. I should’ve known if she’d owned a firearm. Regardless of whose it was, if the cop found it, he would surely come to the door looking for Michelle and probably call for backup.

  I remembered the wire I’d taken from Michelle. The small microphone lay a few feet from me, appearing in the dim light only as a small dark lump on the carpet. Mike Wu had told Michelle they would monitor her. My house had been bugged, but somehow, those devices had been fried, he’d said. I recalled the power surge that blew out the TV and the light above the kitchen sink. But had I been too loud while near the microphone Michelle had been wearing, praying for her to come back to life? Had I made enough noise as I worked on her lifeless body for them to hear me? That was likely, if they had been listening — unless the skirmish they were currently involved in was keeping them too busy to notice.

  I glanced around the dark living room. The clock on the stereo was blinking. At least power had been returned, but Michelle hadn’t bothered to reset the time. I moved quietly to the CD case next to the entertainment center and searched through the albums in the light from the flashing LED. They were all best-of-type records of the sixties, seventies, eighties, and nineties — country and rock, a little jazz and some easy-listening stuff. I found one I remembered faintly, Eagles Live. After turning on the CD player, sliding the disk in, and pushing Random on the control panel, I turned the volume low and placed Michelle’s microphone next to the speaker. Desperado played softly. I hoped they’d think Michelle was listening peacefully to some oldies, and the melodic voices of Don Henley, Glenn Frey and the rest of the band would mask any noise I might make.

  I needed to get my thoughts together and figure this all out. Why did Michelle attempt to call back the very people who were trying to kill me? Because she was afraid for her own life and the others, of course. But her voice had seemed void of emotion when she spoke of me. I was more of a problem to her. The emotionless solution to her problem and to the others’ was to kill me. Somehow, it was reasonable. However, selfishly, I wished she would’ve shed at least a couple of tears.

  What happened to start my deadly spree? The answer was in when it started. This morning, the lady who bumped into me. Had she started it in motion? Or was it the bee sting? Sunny? When she slapped the “bee” this morning had she somehow caused the mess? And what about the bugs? Why had I been monitored, and what exactly did the little disks do? Were they some sort of tiny transmitters, listening or homing devices? Or did they do something more? And where did they come from? Dr. Xiang must have implanted the one on my neck. After all, he was the one who told me it was a bump from the fall I’d taken and instructed me not to mess with it. But when did he do it? When I was taken to the hospital after falling in the shower, of course. The only remembrance that came to mind was in one of those home-movie-like memories when the doctor had told me not to disturb the lump or there might be complications.

  What about Xiang in the Biotronics limo, and what about the van that was the same dark-blue color as the limousine? Somehow, the Mount Rainy Biotronics company was involved, but how? Why? Was I some sort of an experiment? Were they trying something out on me? I surely didn’t volunteer for it, did I? Were there others? If it was all an experiment, didn’t they understand the incredible cost before they committed to it?

  I stood up but stayed low. Maybe there would be something to jog my memory or some kind of clues in the house.

  * * *

  When Chief Dailey arrived on the small trail at checkpoint alpha in his squad car, he found one of Biotronics’ helicopters lying in a smoldering pile and four of his remaining SWAT team members staggering in circles and vomiting.

  The security force that had come down from the Weller residence had arrived and were scouring the area, and Colonel Wu stepped up to the chief as he got out of the car.

  “You see anything?” Dailey asked

  “No. No one came by us,” Wu answered.

  Prater wrenched hard one last time and spit into some bushes. “The lights,” he said, still bent at the waist and struggling to speak, “they were so damn bright. Blinding. Made us dizzy, sick.” He squinted toward Wu and Dailey.

  “Take your men back,” Wu told him. “Give them fluids and allow them thirty minutes rest. Then get them back on the job.” He turned toward the crashed chopper and told Dailey, “That’s helo three. The tail rotor was shot up — they lost control and hit a tree.”

  “Any survivors?” Dailey asked.

  Prater spat on the ground again. The rest of his team was on their hands and knees. “When we got to them . . . ,” he began, then gagged twice, “. . . all four were all laid out in a row, all breathing, but unconscious. They’re on the other side of the wreckage. We couldn’t do anything for them in the condition we’re in.”

  Colonel Wu tossed his helmet on the ground. “They knock out our sensors and cameras, they tear through our security fence, they shoot down our helicopter — yet rescue the crew, and they carry illumination charges to incapacitate our people.” He spun around and looked squarely at Dailey. “Who in the hell are they?”

  “Don’t bark at me.” Dailey narrowed his eyes. “I’m only the police chief. You’re the one who’s supposed to be up on this shit. How should I know?”

  Wu glared at him.

  “And don’t try any of your thought-projection crap on me,” Dailey said. “You can bet Xiang will have your ass if you do.” Dailey turned back to his patrol car. “What I do know is that it’s only a matter of time, now. This thing’s coming undone, and the good wave we’ve been ridin’ is about to crash on the rocks.”

  * * *

  I didn’t dare turn on a light. Even though they might expect Michelle would be moving around in the house, I didn’t want to take any unnecessary chances. I scanned the living room in the darkness. The streetlights’ glow and the reflected light from the snow cover filtered through the curtains and weakly illuminated my surroundings. Nothing appeared out of place.

  I moved toward the master bedroom, feeling my way along the walls in the dark. The doorway came sooner than I’d expected. When I stepped inside, I found an Indianapolis-racer-style bed illuminated by a nightlight and I realized I was in William’s room. I should’ve remembered every step to take in this house, my house. But I couldn’t, even though I’d lived here over seven years. Back in the hall again, I found the master bedroom doorway on the other side.

  In the bedroom, I closed the door. The meager light from the street outlined the closed shades. When I pressed them against the windows to ensure as little light as possible would escape, I found myself in complete darkness. Using a flashlight seemed advisable, but I couldn’t remember where we’d kept one. Surely, we had several, probably one in each of our nightstands. When I knocked over a small lamp on Michelle’s side of the bed as I fumbled around, I realized my memory of this room in which I’d slept thousands of nights was inadequate. After reaching inside Michelle’s bedside table drawer, rummaging around and not finding so much as a penlight or candle, I stood in the dark and considered my immediate situation. Undoubtedly, I would find a flashlight in the garage, in the least inside the glove compartment of our car. The thought of stumbling around in the garage made me shiver. The memory of it was absent from my mind. Besides, a flashlight could cause flashing bursts of light to be seen from the outside, should I mistakenly direct it toward a window or catch the wrong angle of a mirror. On thin shades, it would make telltale circles of illumination. Those on the outside searching for me, looking for something out of the ordinary, would think more of not seeing normal room lights than they would a simple la
mplight. If Michelle were alone in the house she wouldn’t be using a flashlight — she’d have the room lights on. Still, I shouldn’t get carried away. Someone outside standing close to a window might catch a glimpse of me. I righted the small lamp by Michelle’s side of the bed that I’d just knocked over and turned it on. I welcomed it’s glow.

  The first thing I noticed was that the bed was nicely made and everything seemed in perfect order. I gazed at the framed photos on the nightstands. Michelle’s picture sat on my side of the bed and mine on hers. On the dresser was a photo of Michelle and our son. Nothing seemed unusual.

  I opened the dresser drawers. Each one was filled with either her underwear or mine, neatly folded and stacked as if they were fresh from their packages. Oddly, none showed even the slightest wear, elastics like new. They all were creased where they were folded as if the undergarments had been pressed that way or folded for a very long time.

  Michelle’s purse lay beside the dresser. I picked it up and rummaged through. I found no car keys. Other than that, nothing was unusual or of any real interest. I took out her wallet and opened it. A Colorado driver’s license with her picture on it was tucked inside. It was a typical DL photo — her eyes half shut, her hair slightly mussed. Surely, I’d seen it before — I should have remembered it, but I didn’t. A VISA card and a MasterCard stuck out from one side. Both had her name on them.

  Above the dresser was the key hook where I always hung my car keys, and they were there, where they were supposed to be. The key ring had a Buick symbol on it, just as I’d remembered. I plucked them off and slipped them into my pants pocket.

  I went to the closet and opened the bi-fold doors. The first thing I noticed was the smell, the new smell of a clothing store, new fabric, shoe leather and polish. Added to that was the pleasant scent from the cedar-lined walls. On one side hung Michelle’s dresses, pants and blouses, at least a dozen of each. On the other side were my sport coats, trousers, casual shirts, a few ties, and several belts. All hung perfectly as if in a clothier’s. The shirts still showed the fold creases as if new and freshly out of the packages. Our shoes lined the floor, maybe a dozen women’s and half-a-dozen men’s in a neat row. I picked up several and inspected them. None showed scuffmarks or wear on their soles. Their leather seemed stiff as if they came right from their boxes. Nothing more to be seen in the closet, I stepped out and checked the clothes hamper in the corner. Except for my purple silk boxers, it was empty of dirty clothes.

  In the master bath, the towels hung neatly folded, none frayed, the fibers firm and crisp, as if they’d never been through a wash cycle. Michelle had been meticulous. Even the soap bars, including the one on the vanity and the one in the shower, were nearly new as if they had only been used this morning. The shampoo bottle was full. The carpet was, for the most part, unworn, and I couldn’t remember if it was relatively new or if it had been in the home over seven years ago when we’d bought it. The walls showed no nail holes or smudges. The tempered glass enclosure had but a few water spots on it probably from my shower this morning. But no signs of those nearly-impossible-to-get-rid-of buildups of soap or mineral deposits were evident on it, the tub, or the fixtures. The commode shined. No unsightly body hair. The toilet paper roll was brand new. At the double vanity, no toothpaste or soap splatters on the mirror. The toothpaste tube had only the slight dent I put in its side hours earlier and the toothbrushes had no toothpaste residue. I picked up my hairbrush. It had a solitary hair on it. I pulled it off and examined it close to my face. I wondered if a crime scene investigator were to inspect the place, would this single hair have been the only evidence I’d actually ever been here, let alone made it my abode for seven years?

  I checked the linen closet. Neither Mickey nor his tracks were anywhere to be found. Once again, all of the bed linen and bath towels on the shelves were painstakingly pressed and folded.

  I stood in the bathroom doorway and looked out at the bedroom while running my thumb over the bristles of the blue toothbrush I’d used earlier in the day. The brush was stiff, only used once, if I were to guess. I wondered if I would be questioning any of this if it wasn’t for what had happened today. I doubted it. Now, despite my memories of this place, I also doubted it had been my home at any time, let alone the past seven years.

  There was no obvious way of solving my mystery here. The answer must be with Chief Dailey, Doctor Xiang, Colonel Wu and Mount Rainy Biotronics. Sunny was also suspect, but she was probably long gone — or dead. I shook my head. What the hell happened there? At first she acted enraptured, risked her life for me. The next minute she threatened to shoot me. I hoped she was okay, somehow. But the reports over the police radio didn’t sound positive.

  These people would be watching the streets and searching the woods for me now. There would be roadblocks. I could try to sneak out of town. I’d never make it in my Buick. They’d certainly be looking for it — if it was still in the garage. They might have towed it off or made sure it wasn’t drivable some way. It would be a hell of a long walk down fifty miles of winding roadway to Summitview.

  The only plan I could come up with was probably suicidal: to someway make it to Mount Rainy Biotronics, get inside and rescue my son. Then, I would steal — or perhaps carjack if necessary — a getaway car. While I was there, perhaps I would find out what really went on inside that windowless, sterile-white facility.

  After turning off the lamp, I went to the door and slowly opened it. The hallway leading to the living room was still dark. The only sound other than the ticking of the wall clock in the guest bath across the hall, was the Eagles softly singing I Can’t Tell You Why.

  I’d make a surer getaway if I left through the bedroom window to the side of the house instead of the front where the occupied patrol car was parked, or the back where the police had gone. But before I left, I couldn’t help but go back into the living room where Michelle lay. I wondered if she was truly who she’d claimed to be. But how absurd of me to question that. Of course she was. She was my wife, mother of my child, companion, lover. I remembered that much in the twisting cyclone of my mind. But with the strange goings on, the lack of crucial memories, the odd flashes of reminiscences and how they presented themselves to me — perhaps I had been deceived. Perhaps she was somehow alive. Maybe she wouldn’t be lying where I’d left her. Maybe I’d find her sitting in the recliner, listening to the Eagles and sipping a merlot while reading a Good Housekeeping magazine. I was being ridiculous again. She was dead, and she would be where I’d left her, and the way things were going, it could be the last chance I’d get to see her.

  With my back against the hallway wall, I crept toward the living room. As I approached, I noticed my son’s bedroom door ajar, the way I’d left it, and the faint light coming through the doorway. I stepped up to it and pushed the door open. A Buzz Lightyear nightlight glowed from the near wall. Will’s Indy-racer-style bed sat in the middle of the far wall. In the poor light, I couldn’t make out its color, but I remembered its bright, red and white, lacquered finish. I went to it and glided my hand over its smooth surface. I found no chips or scratches. At his dresser, I opened a drawer and removed several pairs of his jeans. All were the same dark shade. Holding them close to my eyes, I could see the knees weren’t lighter than the rest of the fabric and didn’t show any wear, but still felt stiff. I questioned whether they’d ever been washed. I put them away and picked up his Air Jordan basketball shoes from beside the bed and brought them up to my face — no grass stains or dirt or even rocks buried between the tread. The shoelaces weren’t worn. Will was permanently paralyzed, the neurosurgeon said. He’d never have a need to wear the shoes again — if he’d ever worn them at all. I frowned at the shoes. Doc Xiang had given us hope. I was determined to turn the hope into reality, if I could live long enough. With Mish dead, that was all I had left.

  From my peripheral vision, I thought I saw a shadow pass by the door, and I put the shoes down. I watched the doorway for a moment and finally deci
ded it was nothing. Perhaps a car’s lights had created the shadow from a block away, or an owl had flown by the streetlight.

  Regardless of what it had been, I reminded myself of the need to get moving. I slipped back into the hall and took three steps to the living room. I bent almost to the floor as I moved swiftly into the room and to Michelle’s side. Through the curtains, I could see the patrol car parked where it had been before I went to the back of the house. The silhouette of the lone officer was still inside the car.

  I gently placed my hand on Michelle’s cheek. She lay there as before, her body slightly cooler now. Gazing at her, I forgot about where I was and the danger surrounding me. “I’m sorry,” I told her again, not thinking about the bug.

  A sound. Odd. I thought of a hissing snake.

  The sibilant noise came from the corner I’d lain against earlier while mourning for Michelle. I looked to it, eight feet away, and saw a dark form huddled there roughly the size of a man. The thing shushed me again, and my heart began to race. Like a phantom, something moved fleetly from the adjacent corner to nearly within arm’s reach from across Michelle’s body. The thing had two green dots where the eyes should have been, instead of only one. I realized it must be the armed men in dark-blue fatigues with night-vision goggles, again. They’d caught me. However, even in the bad lighting, this man’s fatigues looked more black than dark-blue, as if that made a difference.