Big Three-Thriller Bundle Box Collection

by Gordon Kessler

  He blew into the whistle. Two longs, two shorts and a long.

  Parker braced himself for death. He was furious. He was petrified. He was in pain. Sweat rolled down his forehead. His wrists bled profusely.

  Jezebel’s ferocity roared from her huge throat, starting as a rumbling growl and ending in four vicious, thundering barks.

  Parker flinched.

  She stepped to him and had to bend her big neck down to look at him face to face. She glanced to the plastic-covered head of her mate, Beelzebub, laying two feet from Parker’s leg. She sniffed at it briefly, then turned back to Parker.

  She growled, showing her enormous canine incisors.

  Parker leaned back as far as he could without falling backward. He held his eyes closed tight. Her warm saliva dripped on his chest. She licked her chops. She growled again, her hot breath blowing on his face.

  “Don’t play with him too long, Jezebel,” Truong said. “We really must hurry.”

  Parker knew within a few seconds he would be dead. The next growl was sure to end with her enormous mouth clamping onto his throat.

  His head began spinning again. He shook convulsively. He thought of what Mrs. Crane had said about Jezebel. How big and beautiful she was and yet how gentle.

  Parker opened his eyes and looked down her cavernous throat.

  “No, Jezebel, no,” Parker said.

  She responded with a less enthusiastic growl.

  He remembered the most prominent comment about her, besides her size, was her intelligence. He remembered the nickname Mrs. Crane said MacGreggor called her.

  “Jazbo, no. No, Jazbo!”

  Jezebel closed her mouth. She looked into Parker’s eyes as if searching for something familiar. She blinked.

  Truong became impatient and angered with Jezebel’s hesitation. He blew the whistle again. Two longs. . . .

  Jezebel’s roaring bark interrupted, her head twisted back at Truong.

  “No. Not me!” he cried.

  Jezebel swung around and leaped at Truong.

  He fired a wild shot and didn’t have time for another.

  The huge dog’s enormous mouth grabbed Truong’s gun hand and tore the pistol, three fingers and the major portion of his hand away. He was left with only his thumb and forefinger and the two hand bones that joined them to his wrist, exposed and white. Blood immediately gushed from the ripped flesh. Truong stared at his devastated member in wide-eyed disbelief. It seemed the pain was yet to explode in his brain. He gaped at Jezebel. She dropped the gun to the floor then tongued the reluctant fingers from her mouth as if they were lodged chicken bones, and they fell beside the gun. Truong looked at the fingers, then gawked at his hand.

  “Uuuh, hu-uh-uh-uh,” Truong whimpered, then wrenched his face at the huge monster before him.

  Jezebel lunged again. This time she caught him by the neck and yanked him from his feet. She shook him like so many dirty rags.

  Truong slipped from her mouth, tossed, arms flailing, across Parker’s lap. He started to get up, miraculously still alive, but Jezebel hulked over him again. She pushed him face to face against Parker, and Parker fell backward, flat on his back.

  Truong’s eye patch had fallen off in the scuffle, and his left eye was open wide. No life existed in the eye. Just the opposite. Death. Evil. The pupil was dilated to the size of a dime and only a thin ring of an iris showed. It was wilted like a deflated balloon. The white of the eye was dark yellow and blood-shot. It was emotionless and fixed, unlike his right eye that was filled with terror. The left eye, the dead one, was dark, very dark and deep like a well. Parker knew the eye wasn’t human. It was a dog’s eye.

  For a moment, he thought he could see a sparkle, or flashing, or maybe explosions, in the deep dark eye. Mortar rounds exploding. Napalm incinerating. Rifles shooting. Bayonets slashing. People running. People screaming and crying. People dying. Blood flowing.

  They lay nose to nose, but Parker felt neither vengeance nor pity, only fear. Truong looked at him as if begging for help. Jezebel bit again. This time, one of her lower fangs grazed Parker’s throat before embedding itself into Truong’s.

  “Auh, glau-huuu!” Truong’s scream muffled down to a hiss, then silenced.

  There was an overshoe, mud-sucking-like sound as Truong’s throat crushed, and Parker felt the small man’s hot blood running down onto his neck. Something warm spilled onto his stomach and lower body. Truong had lost all muscle control and urinated.

  The struggle lasted only a few brief seconds. Parker wondered if he would wet his pants when Jezebel finished him. Even if he didn’t, when they found him they’d think he had because of the water from the ice chest and because of Truong. It made him angry. A trivial thing to be concerned with at a time like this. Still, it made him angry.

  With all his strength, he shoved with his shoulder and sat up. He’d managed to push Truong’s body back down to his legs.

  Jezebel stood silently, still gripping Truong’s throat, ensuring his death. She glanced at Parker out of the corner of her eye. She looked back at Truong’s face then bent her head down, Truong’s neck still between her jaws, and looked over his body. Satisfied he was dead, she dropped him across Parker’s legs like a hunting dog obediently dropping a duck it had just retrieved at its master’s feet.

  Parker sat watching her and she returned what seemed to be an anxious glare.

  She moved closer.

  He felt the fear come back full strength. It was now his turn to die.

  “No, Jezebel,” he said softly.

  No response.

  “Jazbo, no!”

  She roared as viciously as before.

  The nickname seemed to make her angry. She was no longer under Truong’s spell. It was as if she were saying that Parker was not her master. Only her master called her that. No one else. She wouldn’t allow it. Her master was dead. No one would call her that again.

  “Whoa, sorry,” Parker said softly. “Nice, Jezebel, good girl.”

  She growled, sounding more like a loud purr, as she put her snout within three inches of Parker’s nose. She made the sound again.

  They stared into each other’s eyes. Jezebel seemed to sense his pain. Parker understood hers and spoke easy.

  “It’s okay now, Jezebel. It’s all over. There’ll be no more pain. No more hurting. No more death. It’s all over.”

  Parker thought of Jack and Doc and Patsy and Sarah. He thought of his family: Audrey, Nick and Julie, and how much he loved them and wished he could hug them all right this minute. Tears came to his eyes.

  Jezebel gave a long, sad whine and cocked her head to the side.

  Parker smiled at her and chuckled lightly.

  She brought her head closer and licked his face sympathetically.

  Suddenly, from behind, a rifle.

  “No! Don’t!” Parker yelled.

  A shot rang out.

  Jezebel staggered for a moment, looked at Parker, rolled her eyes and then collapsed.

  Parker looked up. Tommy Chin stood in the doorway with a tranquilizer gun to his shoulder.

  CHAPTER 53

  As Tommy Chin helped Tony Parker get loose from the chains, headlights came up the drive. It was Julie in the minivan with a police car behind.

  “Are you okay, Tony?” she cried, running to him.

  They embraced. It was good to see Julie. Good to touch her. Good to hold her.

  Two police officers ran in after her with their guns drawn.

  “Yeah, I’m fine. What are you doing here?”

  “The kids are at Bill and Barbara’s. Sarah had a nurse call from the hospital. She said you needed me and to call the police. She said it was women’s intuition.”

  Parker took Julie by the arms and led her away from the mess on the floor of the examination room before she had a chance to see. While explaining the situation to the officers, they covered the bodies and heads with blankets and stowed Jezebel safely away in Chin’s van.

  It was now a few minute
s after ten o’clock. There was little time left. They found the necessary files on Patsy’s desk and called in most of them to the dispatcher’s office. Tyrone told Parker that the police chief wasn’t too convinced by the story and only discussed it with the TV station. Channel Two wasn’t convinced either and decided to go ahead and air the interview. Now, maybe after what had happened, they could be convinced. But was there enough time? Tyrone would try.

  Parker kept three dozen of the names, and he, Chin and Julie called them from the phones in Doc’s office, the examination room and Patsy’s desk in the front.

  They viewed the Channel Two News on a small black-and-white TV that Patsy had kept in the reception area as Chin had the last dog owner on the phone.

  *-*-*

  At the Channel Two News Center, producer Mike Stilton had taken the call from Police Chief Baker but refused to kill the interview, influenced by Henry Haskins’ begging. The chief seemed confused and skeptical about the warning he’d received and wasn’t very persuasive.

  Colleen Jones, the preppy-looking anchorwoman, introduced Haskins. She frowned as she looked to him, then looked off camera toward Stilton. The camera zoomed in. Haskins sat behind the anchor desk with his basset hound sitting on the desk beside him and did the intro for the interview.

  “Earlier today, this reporter had the opportunity to interview Mr. Ho Truong, assistant to the well-respected veterinarian Dr. Johnny White Cloud who was murdered outside his practice by the killer dog Jezebel, late last night. Mr. Truong had some things to say about the doctor, along with some training tips for your dog. I know Sirius, here, my Dog Star, is anxious to hear him.”

  The interview began.

  Stilton looked to the cameraman, scowling. “What does he think he’s doing?” Stilton asked. “Who told him he could bring his damn dog on the set, let alone on live TV? I’m the frickin’ producer here. He didn’t frickin’ ask me!”

  The cameraman shrugged his shoulders as a young woman scurried up to Stilton.

  “There’s a call from the Sedgwick County dispatcher for you. It’s urgent.”

  Stilton started toward the front office, his eyes narrowed, glaring at Haskins.

  The interview continued.

  Haskins’ basset hound went nuts. He growled and grabbed Haskins by the throat. Haskins fell over backward, and they both disappeared behind the desk.

  Stilton reached for the doorknob as the attack began. He stopped and watched, amazed.

  “Aw, shit!” he exclaimed. He shook his head. “I’m firing the son-of-a-bitch this time—if he lives.”

  Colleen Jones stood up at the desk and began stomping. After half a dozen frantic kicks she quit, reached down, and pulled the basset hound up by the tail with both hands, holding it like a giant, dead mouse. She stepped back and slung it over the desk as if it were a hammer throw. Haskins’ ex best friend tumbled limply, then slid across the floor and into the base of the camera.

  Anchorwoman Jones took two more enthusiastic stomps behind the desk, slapped her palms and walked away.

  *-*-*

  Chin insisted into the phone, “Yes sir, I said you must lock the dog in a vacant room or in the garage, now!” Chin looked at Parker and said to him with concern. “Uh-oh, there’s growling. It might be too late.”

  A crack loud enough for all to hear came from the phone and Chin flinched. He jerked the phone back, and Parker could hear the man’s voice on the other end.

  “Damn, Barney, what the hell’s the matter with you?” the man said away from the phone. Now, he spoke into it. “I had to hit the damn dog with the phone. Aw, shit, I think I killed him!”

  Chin and Parker exchanged relieved smirk s, and Chin hung up the phone.

  There were a total of five other attacks in Wichita that night, only one being serious, but not fatal. The police had done a good job of rounding up all of the animals, and the situation seemed under control.

  Parker and Chin sedated Yankee and the greyhound, hoping that when they woke up, they would be all right again. Next, would come the problem of deprogramming all of the estimated two hundred dogs affected.

  After checking on Hill’s condition, which was good, Parker went home and climbed into Nick’s bed with Julie and the kids.

  His body ached. His head spun. He felt hot and feverish. Rabies symptoms, maybe, but just as likely from his numerous injuries. Parker convinced himself that it was only normal to feel like he did, considering what he’d been through. He doubted he’d had actual rabies symptoms. If he did have the disease, he’d surely feel much worse by now, possibly even comatose or dead. Just in case, he would not kiss them, not let his blood touch their skin, not breath into their faces.

  It was good to be home. It was good to hold Julie. Julie held him back tightly. He knew it was okay, now. The terrible crisis was over.

  CHAPTER 54

  Dawg scratched at the door again. The thin plywood panel in the middle flexed as he dug his terrible black claws relentlessly into the wood. It had been a long, long night and day since Tricia had attempted to leave her haven in the closet and stumbled into Dawg’s sleeping body. She had been lucky he was sleeping and not prepared for her. She had been lucky and bounced off his chest after falling onto him. She had been able to get back into the closet and slam the door before he’d realized what happened.

  Dawg had scratched at the door off and on ever since. Tricia was scared. Not scared like before when she knew she must do something but didn’t know what. Now she was scared without hope. There was nothing she could do. No one would come to save her.

  She was so very tired and hungry. She felt weak. Her mouth was dry. Her entire body trembled.

  Soon Dawg would break through and get her. He would eat what he wanted of her and leave the rest to rot, and she would not be able to stop him.

  Tricia stared into the darkness toward the door with her body drawn up against the corner. The time had come. A dim light showed through the door as one of Dawg’s claws poked through and was hung up there for a moment. The scratching stopped for an instant as Dawg yanked on his leg to free up the snared claw. He broke free and resumed pawing, this time even more feverishly.

  It wouldn’t be long now. Tricia hugged herself, rubbing her arms. Her jaw trembled out of control. Suddenly, a large piece of the door panel ripped away, and Dawg’s snout came through.

  Tricia shrieked and put her hands down to her sides to shove herself into the corner even more. Something sharp jabbed her hand and it hurt. She thought of what Grammy had told her as she ran through the yard with a sharp stick. “Don’t run with that stick in your hand. You might fall and poke your eye out,” she’d yelled.

  That’s it! She could take this stick she had just discovered, and when Dawg shoved his head all the way through, she’d poke him in the eye with it. She’d poke him in both eyes with it. Then, maybe he’d leave her alone.

  Tricia picked the thing up as Dawg chewed viciously on the panel. It wasn’t a stick, but a wire coat hanger. That wouldn’t work. She couldn’t poke him in the eye with the curved wire end. She had to bend it straight, but she didn’t have the strength. She strained, pushing the end of the wire with one thumb on top of the other. Her skin was thin and soft, and it hurt to push so hard on the stiff, blunt end. But she had to straighten it. It was her only hope.

  Dawg had his head halfway in now. He sniffed briefly, then looked to Tricia with a snarl that reminded her of a grin—a big grin like the wolf had before he ate Granny in her Little Red Riding Hood storybook.

  Dawg jerked his head back and resumed chewing and scratching.

  The wire hanger’s curved end wouldn’t budge, and when Tricia took her thumb off the end, she felt the deep indentation it caused on her tender flesh. She shook her hand and blew on it. Dawg saw the movement and gave a few snarling barks that startled Tricia. It made her mad, and she hit the door with the hanger twice. Dawg was undaunted. He continued frantically and broke loose another large chunk of door. He’d be through and
at her throat within seconds.

  The hanger was impossible for Tricia to bend with her fingers. How could she do it? She thought of Grandy and how he used to fix things. She remembered once when she helped him repair some rotten steps on the front porch, he bent a nail as he hammered it into a board. After scolding the nail with a few grown up words, he put the end of the fricker-fracker as he called it in the crack between two of the porch’s deck boards and bent it straight with his fingers. That would work, but where was a crack?

  Dawg tore yet another large chunk out of the door panel and now lunged through the opening, coming in with his head and left foreleg. The opening was still not large enough to allow his entire body to pass, and he struggled to force himself in. Now Tricia could feel his hot rancid breath and see his savage amber eyes up close, real close. Those eyes, those terrible hungry eyes, glared at her. Soon she would poke them out with the wire hanger.

  There was a crack that would work right in front of her, in the door. It was only inches from Dawg’s snarling snout, but it was her only hope. She forced the end of the hanger into the crack. A large string of Dawg’s drool flung from his angry mouth and slapped across Tricia’s hand, some of it splattering on Tricia’s cheek. Dawg bit at one end of the hanger and clamped down. Tricia jerked it and pulled the curved end straight, or straight enough. She pulled the hanger back, holding it in the middle, with the straightened end sticking out from between her index and middle finger. She jabbed it at Dawg’s eye.

  “Take that, you fricker-fracker!” she yelled.

  Dawg defended the attack opening his fierce jaws wide. Tricia missed and drove the wire into Dawg’s open mouth, stabbing his tongue. Dawg snapped down in reaction and had a firm and painful grip on Tricia’s hand.

  Tricia screamed and hit Dawg on the end of his snout with the side of her other fist. After three punches, Dawg released his grip and reeled back, shaking his head. He seemed lodged in the hole in the door, unable to come in further or to back out.