Big Three-Thriller Bundle Box Collection

by Gordon Kessler

  “All right, no problem,” Simpson said, “It’ll give Sadie a chance to go shopping. You might give Julie a couple of bucks to go along with her. You know, they say women shop to relieve stress. It might get you off the hook and make Julie a happy camper.”

  “I’m afraid it’ll take a lot more than a couple of bucks to make Julie a happy camper. So, what about this blind man?” Parker asked.

  “His name was Steven Johnson. In some sort of industrial accident and lost sight in both eyes a couple of years back. Just moved to town from Omaha two months ago. His neighbors didn’t know much about him. I guess he kind of kept to himself.”

  “What about the dog?”

  “German shepherd. Had a rabies shot just last week. The vet was Dr. White Cloud.”

  Parker cringed.

  “You think it’s more than coincidence?”

  “I don’t know; I can’t figure it out. I’ll pay Doc a visit on Tuesday. Patsy’s uncle’s funeral is tomorrow, and they’re out of town. What did the blind man’s house look like?”

  “West side, in a new addition off of Central. Nothing was disturbed in the house. The victim’s only apparent wound was his left jugular vein. It was ripped open.”

  They stood, gazing out at their families and friends back at the picnic tables.

  “There’s more, Tony,” Simpson said.

  Parker winced. “What?”

  “There was another page torn from a Bible. This time it was clothes pinned to the mailbox next to the front door.”

  “Did it have initials again?”

  “Yeah, T P.”

  Parker’s eyes widened. “Same scripture?”

  “No, this time it was, ‘eye for eye, tooth for tooth.’”

  “Eye for eye—blind man, tooth for tooth—dog?” Parker speculated.

  “Yeah, maybe, but that doesn’t make any sense. Maybe it means something else.”

  “One thing’s for sure, now. It isn’t just the dogs. There is someone else involved somehow.”

  “But how?”

  “Hell, I don’t know; you’re the detective.”

  “And you’re TP.”

  Parker frowned. “Anything new on the MacGreggor case?”

  Simpson recited as if reading from a note pad. “Doc’s assistant is driving both of the dogs’ heads up to Kansas State University first thing tomorrow. The only wound on the dead dog was the one my bullet made, so we’re guessing the blood on the wall—being dog blood—came from the other dog, Jezebel. Looked like she’d been ramming her head against the wall in some sort of rabies fit. Probably right after the old man was killed. Dr. Walker was good enough to examine the bodies before he went on vacation, otherwise they would have been dissected by some recent med-school grad. The cadavers have really been stacking up down there, what with all the OD’s and suicides lately. People are just going nuts this summer—must be the heat. And, with everyone taking summer vacations, the coroner’s office is operating on half-staff. They’re having to put a lot of stiffs on ice.

  “Anyway, Jezebel’s the one that killed the old man at around midnight, maybe a little before. Both officers were killed by the male. No fingerprints besides the old man’s and the neighbor lady’s, and no sign of Jezebel. Except, we did find a trace of blood on the cedar fence in the back yard. It looked like she’d left right after banging her head on the wall. Oh, and we made contact with the nephew, uh—Daryl Bailey. He’s flying in from Des Moines tomorrow. Seemed kind of anxious to see the house.”

  “Hmm, let me know when he gets here, will you? I’d like to talk to him.”

  “Okay, now, tell me what’s going on in that little BB brain of yours.”

  “If you want to know the truth, I’m not sure. Things just don’t add up. I am convinced these dogs don’t have rabies, yet they attack. Attack their own masters and kill anyone else that comes along for apparently no reason. Somehow, there’s more going on that we don’t know about. Something is setting these dogs off, and I think they’re only unwilling participants.”

  “Sounds nuts to me.”

  “Three dogs, in two separate houses, kill four people. A pastor is nearly killed at his church. All within a couple of days in Wichita, Kansas? These Bible verses and the initials. You give me your theory.” Parker said as they began walking to the picnic tables with the volleyball equipment. He frowned when he saw that someone, probably Nick, had unhooked Yankee’s leash, and the dog now trotted toward them.

  “Coincidence. That’s all it can be. We’re just jumping to conclusions,” Simpson said, petting Yankee as they walked.

  Parker smiled briefly, watching Jack stroke the big Saint Bernard. He knew Yankee was the only dog Simpson trusted enough to touch since he was a kid, and it had taken a couple of years of being around his docile pet to do that.

  When Simpson was five, a neighbor kept a huge black mastiff in his front yard behind a too short, four-foot picket fence. The ugly old dog would reach its head over the fence and bark and growl continuously at anyone in sight. One day, Simpson and his older brother were riding their bikes home from school, and the dog leaped the fence effortlessly. It chased his brother down and knocked him off his bike. Simpson’s brother was badly mauled before a passing motorist intervened with a tire iron and beat the dog to death.

  Simpson’s brother still carried the scars, mostly on his arms and legs, and Simpson still carried the mental scars from watching the attack.

  “I’m on call this afternoon,” Simpson said. “You want to do a little patrolling after the picnic? Maybe go by the blind man’s house.

  “Yeah, sure, I’ll ride with you. But there’s more to it, Jack,” Parker said. “I know there is. It’s not just coincidence.”

  “Hey, easy boy!” Simpson said, yanking his hand back from the dog.

  “What’s wrong?” Parker asked and looked down at Yankee.

  Yankee growled, and the fur rose on his back. He glared toward the picnic tables.

  A commotion. Startled voices.

  Everyone looked toward a spruce tree with low boughs. A huge black and brown rottweiler stepped out from behind the tree with its teeth bared. It stared at the picnickers as it took slow guarded steps toward them, drooling in long strings that glistened in the sunlight.

  Parker grabbed Yankee by the collar and walked swiftly with Simpson at his side.

  “All right now,” he called out. “Everyone, stay calm. It’s okay. Just don’t make any sudden moves.” There was no reason for this animal to be aggressive unless he was sick or had rabies. Maybe he’d killed a rabbit in the trees and was trying to guard it.

  Ted Baker, the Parkers’ divorced neighbor, took the initiative and stood up from the table. He picked up a three-foot stick and approached the dog.

  “Careful Ted,” Parker said, now at a trot. “Don’t get too close.”

  Baker didn’t seem to hear as he stepped even closer, now within six feet of the rottweiler. The dog advanced cautiously, its growls vicious like that of a wolf in a bear trap.

  “Damn it, Ted,” Parker yelled as he sprinted, “don’t get so damn close. Get back!”

  Baker brought the stick to waist level and began swinging it aggressively.

  “Get out of…,” Baker began but didn’t have time to finish as the rottweiler sprang like a leopard and took him by the right wrist. The man wailed and twisted his arm away and the blood streamed. The dog stood its ground while Baker fell back on his seat and scooted backwards to the group.

  Sadie Simpson snatched up a tea towel that was covering a pan of rolls, knelt beside Baker and aided him in wrapping his blood-gushing wrist.

  The children who had been playing in the clearing nearby came running and screaming back to the group. A large collie and a German shepherd followed, giving angry barks and snarls. A frightened young boy, one of the Thortons’ kids who lived down the street from the Parkers, stopped and tried to retrieve the ball cap he’d dropped. The large collie blocked his way. It headed him off. When the boy wen
t left, the dog followed. The boy went right; the dog was there. The boy went left again, and the dog jogged back into his way, this time growling viciously. The boy finally got the message and ran to the others.

  Jack asked, “What’s going on here?”

  Parker saw Simpson looking behind them. Two more dogs, a golden retriever and another German shepherd, this one with mixed blood, advanced from behind. Another two dogs, an Irish setter and a large Heinz fifty-seven cur ran up, one on each side, and stopped within fifteen feet of the group.

  Parker scanned 360 degrees, looking at each of the dogs. Yankee danced around, eyeing each of them also.

  “We’re being herded,” Parker said. “We’re being herded together, like a bunch of sheep.”

  “What for?” Simpson asked. “Why would they?”

  Parker and Simpson were now up to the rest of the group. They stood around the tables with the dogs encircling them. Two more dogs, a Siberian husky and another large mixed breed, appeared and joined in. Some of the younger children cried in scared, nervous sobs.

  “Tony, do something!” Julie begged.

  “All right, everyone, just stay calm. Don’t show fear. No sudden moves, and for God’s sake, no one run.”

  The dogs closed in.

  “Now what?” Simpson asked.

  “Don’t look directly into their eyes. Men, get to the outside of the circle and stand with one side out. No sudden moves, but everyone get a weapon, a knife or a fork or something. And don’t show it; keep it hidden.”

  The dogs advanced several steps closer, their snarls increasing in intensity.

  “It’s not working, Tony!” Julie cried.

  “God, Tony, what’s going on?” Sarah exclaimed.

  “If I can get back to the car, I can get my gun,” Simpson said.

  “A gun might make things worse,” Parker said. “You couldn’t get all of them. They might attack after the first shot.”

  “Or they might all run,” Simpson said back.

  “Getting to the cars is the thing we’ve got to do, but when you get your gun, don’t shoot unless they attack,” Parker insisted. He raised his voice so all could hear. “We’re going to ease our way to the cars. Jack and I will lead. Everyone stay together and take it very slow.”

  They started, inching down the gradual slope to the parking lot. The dogs followed, closing in at the same time. They still snarled savagely, now within an arm’s length of the group.

  Ted Baker’s fifteen-year-old son, Paul, lost his senses and broke from the bunch, running desperately toward the cars. The mixed shepherd and the collie pursued him. Within twenty feet the shepherd nailed him by the heel, and the collie followed with a leaping tackle. The other dogs held fast to their positions as if mystically linked together. They were like well-trained soldiers from an elite army.

  “Damn it, Jack, this is it!” Parker yelled and let go of Yankee’s collar. He ran to the boy’s aid with Simpson running after him.

  Parker grabbed the collie by the neck and jerked him off the boy, who was on his back with arms up, trying to defend himself. The boy’s arms and face already showed several bleeding gashes.

  Simpson grabbed the shepherd around the middle and hurled it into a nearby cedar tree. Yankee quickly overpowered the collie and was on top of it.

  Parker looked up at the other dogs. He was surprised that an incredible melee hadn’t begun. Instead, all of them stood motionless with perked ears. Yankee and the collie both stopped battling, and Yankee stood with head raised and ears cocked. The marauding dogs, as suddenly as they’d appeared, retreated, sprinting back into the trees as if a shot, inaudible to human ears, had been fired.

  Everyone stood in silence, dumbfounded. A moment later, they all seemed to realize they were out of immediate danger and stampeded to their cars. Paul Baker’s father ran over and helped his son up and to their car. Sadie and the kids were already getting into their Olds. Julie had scrambled, with Audrey in her arms and with Nick in tow, to the minivan, jumped in and rolled up the windows. Sarah Hill raced to her car. Parker, Simpson and Yankee stood and watched as everyone made it to safety.

  Jack trotted over to the passenger’s side of his Chevy and opened the door and leaned across the seat. He took out his .357 and held it in his lap as he called in on his radio. Parker stood next to the door, holding Yankee by the collar.

  “Six Adam Three to Dispatch,” Simpson called, his words rushed.

  “Dispatcher, go ahead, Six Adam Three,” the radio squawked back.

  “Code 30,” Simpson barked into the microphone. “Officer needs assistance. We have multiple vicious dogs at Tabor Park. There are at least two injuries. Get an ambulance and all available officers Code 3.

  “Ten Four, Six Adam Three.”

  “I want all officers to shoot to kill, I repeat, shoot to kill any dogs appearing vicious and running loose in this area,” Simpson said.

  “Jack, you can’t do that,” Parker said. “Think about it.”

  Simpson paused. “10-23, dispatch, hold on.”

  Parker said, “Have them call Animal Control for me. Let’s work together. If you go shooting every loose dog, you’re going to end up killing a lot of innocent animals, and someone’s going to get hurt.”

  “Dispatch, cancel that shoot to kill,” Simpson said somewhat calmer. “Call in all available animal control officers. Have all officers proceed with caution and identify and restrain any dogs appearing to be a threat. Shoot to kill as last resort only.”

  “Ten Four, Six Adam Three.”

  They heard sirens within two minutes. Soon, the entire park seemed overrun by police and animal control officers. Not a trace of the vicious animals was found.

  CHAPTER 14

  At a quarter till three, Donna and Bart Hartwell and their two-and-a-half-year-old son Joshua arrived on the riverbank of the Little Arkansas River within a stone’s throw of the Douglas street bridge. The Sunday afternoon traffic roared above as hundreds of other citizens rushed about, enjoying the beautiful day.

  It didn’t matter that it was a lousy place to fish. They probably wouldn’t catch anything, but they were together. Donna would be going to work at five at the downtown McDonald’s, and Bart worked the graveyard shift at Boeing. They were together. They were young. This was a rare moment they could relax and share.

  “Okay, Josh, now you stay back from the water while Daddy baits your hook,” Bart said.

  Donna stood well up the bank, her tongue sticking out the corner of her mouth as she struggled with a fat, juicy earthworm. Joshua toddled back and forth impatiently behind his parents.

  A grasshopper flipped down the path, and the boy waddled after it. He reached to capture his flighty little prey but fell forward when his toes hit a rock just off the path. He caught himself with his hands and looked down into a dry drainage ditch. A large drainage culvert was set in the gradual-sloping bank beside the bike path. He seemed distracted by the dark hole. The grasshopper made a getaway, and Josh descended toward the black gap on his hands and knees.

  Inside the concrete tunnel, a shadow lay low, back a few feet from the opening, wary of her increasingly noisy surroundings. She had sought relief from the coming day’s heat as the sun rose this morning, and the cool cement seemed to be ideal in the quiet of the pre-dawn. Now, she felt trapped. The onrush of traffic and continuous parade of people captured her in the storm drain with no escape. The people were after her. She must stay hidden.

  Jezebel lay with her head on her paws. With wide eyes and perked ears, she studied the animal stumbling toward her and recognized it as a human pup. She had seen only a couple before. The last time was when the old female human brought two over to her master’s den. They were harmless and innocent little creatures that liked to play and whine. Her nostrils flared, and her glistening black nose twitched. She remembered their smell, fresh and sweet, yet with a slight uriny scent. The same odor came from this one.

  Jezebel had never had pups of her own. Her instinct
s told her she should, she needed to, but the pups never came. She had enjoyed playing with the human pups before and wished they could have stayed so she could have licked and cleaned them and lain down with them to protect and keep them warm. They weren’t her pups, but she needed to have them. She was supposed to have pups.

  “Be careful, now, Joshua,” Donna cautioned. “Don’t you go too far.”

  “Dog-gee?” Joshua said and stopped halfway to his goal.

  Human pup. Lick, sniff, play!

  Jezebel voiced a light whine. She darted her tongue, and her tail slapped the concrete twice.

  The human woman looked back at the culvert apparently hearing the sound. Jezebel’s eyes shifted to her. Confusion once again stirred her brain. Man—enemy, kill. Kill!

  “No, I don’t think there’s a doggie in there, honey,” Donna said. She went back to struggling with the worm. “Why don’t you come up and help me catch a big old fish?” Donna looked back at Joshua. “Now, don’t get down there too far and get all dirty.

  “Oh, Donna,” Bart said, “he’s a boy. He was born to get dirty. What’s a little dirt when there’s adventure to be had? Maybe there is a dog in there.” Bart looked over his shoulder and craned his neck as he pushed a large, meaty night crawler on a second fishhook. He squinted, but the bright sun would not allow him to see into the darkened crotch of the ditch.

  “Mamma, doggie!” the boy yelled out in excitement, as he stumbled closer, within five feet of the dark gap under the path.

  “All right, it’s time to fish, and I don’t think your silly doggie’s going to want to fish with us,” Donna said, starting toward the boy. “Come on, come on up.” She began stepping down with arms stretched.

  Kill! Kill! Kill!

  *-*-*

  Parker drove his family home in an unusually quiet minivan. There hadn’t been a word said during the entire fifteen-minute drive.

  Without speaking, Parker changed and left in his truck. As he drove, he tried to think of anyone who could be trying to get back at him for something he had done. Someone seeking revenge, maybe even someone trying to frame him. He could think of no one. Haskins had always tried to be a thorn in his side, but that was all he’d tried to do. This was much more serious than that. Haskins was stupid, but he wasn’t entirely insane. Whoever was involved in these horrible attacks was definitely one hundred percent wacko.