The List - A Thriller

by Konrath, J. A.

  “We need to talk to one of them, to find out what’s going on. If only one shows up, it’s easy. I go around behind him while he’s at the front door.”

  “And if they both show up?”

  “Same thing. But if it goes bad, you’ll be in here, aiming out this window. Vlad had the gun, so we go for him first. Can you do that?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m going to look over Bill’s computer files, see if I can turn something up. Do you want anything? Some water? A sandwich?”

  “I don’t think I could eat.”

  “Right. Sorry. I’ll relieve you in about an hour, okay?”

  Joan nodded. Tom turned to leave.

  “Tom?”

  He stopped. “Yeah?”

  “Have you ever…?”

  Tom knew where this was headed. He took a breath and let it out slowly.

  “Killed someone? My second year. It was a 10-16. Domestic violence. We’d had calls about that address before. The husband drank, and he was a mean drunk. When my partner and I arrived, the guy took a swing at me. Big fellow. Strong. We jumped on top of him, trying to get the cuffs on. He fought pretty damn hard.”

  Tom hadn’t talked about this in years, not since his mandatory visit to the police shrink.

  “You shot him?”

  “Um, no. We managed to get him subdued. But his wife… she came out of the bedroom with a gun. Shot my partner in the head. Defending her husband, I guess. Even though the bastard broke her nose.”

  “You killed her.”

  “I killed her.”

  “Self-defense.”

  “Yes.”

  “Just like me.”

  Tom nodded, slowly. “Yes.”

  Her shoulders shook, and then the tears. Tom went to her, arms open. She cried, and he patted her back and smoothed her hair, all while trying not to think about that October night, all those years ago, having to kill the woman he’d shown up to protect.

  “You’ll be fine, Joan. You’re strong.”

  “I know.”

  “He was a bad man.”

  “I know.”

  Joan broke the hug, taking a step back. Tom could tell she’d found her strength again.

  “Was that your friends on the phone, earlier?”

  “Yeah. The bad guys grabbed Bert.”

  “Oh no. I’m sorry.”

  “Roy is going after him, but his cell phone is off. All we can do is wait.”

  “I hope they’re okay.”

  “Me too.”

  “What was it you wanted to check out on Bill’s computer?”

  “I’m not sure. Just searching for clues, I guess. Something to make some sense of all this.”

  “Don’t let me stop you. I’ll be fine.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’ve got window duty. You go be a cop.”

  “I won’t be long.” Tom gave her a little pat on the shoulder and then went back to the den, a bounce in his step.

  He flipped on the light and tried not to look at the corpse. Sitting at the workstation, he logged off the Internet and opened up Bill’s word processing file. Tom found fifteen documents. He clicked on the first one and began to read.

  I address you today as the newly elected Speaker of this House of Representatives…

  Ah-ha. Bill was writing speeches for Phil Jr., the third most powerful man in America. Tom decided to check the most recent speech, to see if it yielded anything interesting. He clicked on the last document and saw it was dated two days from now.

  It is in the times of greatest tragedy that we ourselves must also be great…

  As Tom read on, he was enveloped by a very real sense of dread. Halfway into the first paragraph, his fears were confirmed.

  “Oh no.”

  He continued, and the speech got immeasurably worse. If this were true, if this were really going to happen in two days…

  “We’re in way over our heads.”

  Tom shook his head, his heart aching, because he knew there was no chance in hell any of them would be alive by the end of the week.

  The pain in his wrists woke him up. It didn’t take long for Bert to figure out why.

  He was hanging from them.

  “Welcome back, Mr. Einstein.”

  Jack’s thick lips were curved in a smile. He perched like a cat on the top step of a folding ladder, staring into Bert’s eyes. The expression on his face was pure glee.

  Bert took in the surroundings. It was an empty warehouse of some kind. Dark, dusty, abandoned. Looking up, he saw the rope that bound his hands extended up the ceiling and looped over a rafter. He followed it down to ground level, where it was tied to a massive metal shelving unit.

  “Oh, God.”

  Looking down also revealed what he was hanging over.

  “Oh, God,” Jack repeated. “There are a few tricks to a proper impaling. The stick has to be sharp, but not so sharp that it kills right away. It should be greased, in this case with some petroleum jelly, to help the body slide down. Too much and the game is over too quickly. Too little and it can take weeks. It’s a little bit art, and a little bit science.”

  The stake was at least eight feet long, the pointy tip only a few inches away from Bert’s crotch. The pain in his wrists suddenly became trivial.

  “I know what you’re thinking. Yes, it’s going to hurt. It’s going to hurt a lot. You’ll scream for the first few hours, but no one will hear you. I’d prepared this for Lincoln, but lucky you, you get the trial run.”

  “Why don’t you just shoot me?” Bert’s voice was quivering badly.

  “Why don’t you just shoot me? What’s the fun in that? Besides, I have some questions to ask, about where the others are, and this makes you much more receptive.”

  “I’ll tell you whatever you want. I swear.”

  “I swear.” Jack patted Bert on the head. “Of course you will. Now perk up. We’re going to spend some quality time, here. There are few relationships more intimate than this one. You’ll share everything with me, Albert. You’ll open yourself up like you never have to anyone else. By the end, I hope we’ll be good friends.”

  Bert fought back the tears. “You’re insane.”

  “You’re insane.” Jack laughed. “Of course I’m insane. I’m Jack the Ripper. The original serial killer. The most famous psychopath in history. But I’m not entirely bad. I’ll prove it to you. I’ll give you a phone call. You can call anyone you want.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? To say good-bye, of course.” Jack unclipped the cell phone from his belt and held it out. “Give me a number. I’ll dial for you.”

  Bert trembled with fear, anger, helplessness. He was going to die. The realization staggered him. It was too soon—there was so much he wanted to do, so much he hadn’t yet done. This was supposed to happen when he was old. Not now, not this way, at the hands of a monster who fed on his pain. He wanted to spit in the man’s face, but he held it back for the moment. There was a call he wanted to make.

  Bert told Jack a number. Jack repeated it back, naturally.

  “It’s ringing.” He put it to Bert’s ear.

  “Hello?”

  When Bert heard the voice he wasn’t sure if he could keep it together. “Mom? It’s me.”

  “Albert! How are you? Where have you been hiding? I called the apartment three times, you haven’t answered.”

  “Been busy lately.”

  “Too busy to call your mother?”

  “Look, Mom, this is important.”

  “What is it, Albert?”

  Bert’s eyes teared up. “I want to say… I want to say thank you. Thank you for my life. For raising me.” He swallowed, trying to keep his voice conversational. “You’ve been the best mother anyone could ask for. I love you, Mom.”

  “I love you too, son. Is everything okay?”

  “It’s fine. Is, uh, Dad there?”

  “Albert… I don’t know if he wants to talk to you.”

  “Please. Make
him get on the phone. There’s something I have to tell him.”

  Jack took the phone away and put his hand over the mouthpiece. “I just have to tell you, Albert. This is really touching. Really.”

  “Can you give me the phone back?”

  Jack placed it next to Bert’s ear.

  “Yes?” His father’s voice. Curt. Impatient.

  “Hi, Dad. Look—I know we haven’t seen eye to eye lately, but I wanted to say something.”

  “I’m not sending you any more money.”

  “Dammit, Dad, just listen to me. This isn’t about money. It isn’t about graduate school, or physics, or the stock market. This is about you and me. A long time ago, there was a man who told me I could do anything in life. The sky was the limit. He taught me to believe in myself.”

  Jack took the phone away again. “This is great stuff, Albert. Should I get some tissue?”

  “Can I finish?”

  “Can I finish? Sure.” He held the phone out again.

  Bert tried to gather his thoughts. “You were there for me, Dad. All throughout my life. You helped make me a man. I know I never lived up to your expectations as a son, but you lived up to all of mine as a father, and then some. I just wanted to thank you, for everything you’ve done. I love you.”

  There was a long pause.

  “Did he say it back?” Jack asked.

  Bert averted his eyes.

  “You know, son, you haven’t been by the house in a while. Your mother would love it if you came over, stayed for a few days. I’ve got these Nets tickets—they’re having a great season so far. Heading for the playoffs for sure. Do you remember the first time I took you to see the Nets?”

  “Like it was yesterday. They played the Bulls. Jordan scored 43 points.”

  “So you’ll come out? They’re playing on Thursday. I don’t know what your schedule is like…”

  Bert bit his lower lip. “I don’t think I can make that game, Dad. But thanks.”

  “Well, another time then. Bert?”

  “Dad?”

  “I know…” He cleared his throat. “I know I haven’t been the most affectionate father. That was always your mother’s department. Hugs and kisses and birthday cards. But, I’m glad you called.”

  “I’m glad too.”

  “I love you, son.”

  “Thanks, Dad. Love you too. Bye-bye.”

  Jack took back the phone and pretended to wipe away tears. “I’m all choked up, here. Really. That was touching. The old man actually said he loved you?”

  Bert refused to look at him.

  “My dad loved me, too. It was a different kind of love, though. He had some—issues. Well, let’s be honest. He got off on hurting me. But behind every attack, there was love. I’ve missed him every day since I killed him.”

  “You sick bastard.”

  “You sick bastard. That’s all you can say? Well, maybe the insults will get more creative as the night drags on. I’ll warn you, though. Try to get them all in early. Because later, instead of calling me names you’ll be telling me you love me just to make the pain stop.”

  Bert took a deep breath, searched deep within himself, and found a little reserve of courage. He met Jack’s stare head on.

  “I’m a big, stupid, mama’s boy.”

  Jack didn’t even pause. “I’m a big, stupid, mama’s boy.”

  “And I play with dolls.”

  “And I play with dolls.” Jack’s eyes narrowed. “I see what you’re doing here.”

  “I have to repeat everything because I’m a moron.”

  “I have to repeat everything because I’m a moron. Stop it. Now.”

  Bert racked his brain for more insults. He could remember a show he saw on cable about serial killers. Many of them killed animals, started fires, wet the bed…

  “I wet the bed until I was twenty.”

  Jack’s jaw clenched, and his head began to shake. “I… wet the bed until I was twenty.”

  Bert raised his eyebrows. “Hey, I think we hit a nerve. I’m a bed-wetting little psycho and nobody loves me.”

  Jack slapped Bert across the face. The blow sent him swinging.

  “I’m… a… bed-wetting…”

  “Little psycho and nobody loves me.”

  “Little psycho and nobody loves me. You’re going to wish you hadn’t done this.”

  Jack hurried down the ladder. Bert watched him scamper to the shelving unit, where the rope was anchored. The thought of being dropped on that stake made Bert want to gag. His mind raced. Was there any possible way to get out of this alive? He didn’t see any. Roy—poor Roy— was dead. Bert had only known him a few days, but he considered him a friend. Tom was in LA, and probably wouldn’t find out about their deaths for a few days. No rescue, no escape. All the future held was a long, awful death.

  Bert looked down, between his legs. He was still reeling from Jack’s slap, and the stake swayed back and forth beneath him.

  Maybe he couldn’t stop death, but he could delay it for a little while. Bert kicked his legs out and began to swing.

  “Stop that!”

  Bert stretched out his leg, trying to reach the ladder. Maybe, just maybe, he could get onto it…

  The rope went slack and Bert fell.

  He stopped abruptly. At first, he thought he’d landed on the ladder and everything was okay. Then the pain hit. His left buttock. White hot, searing pain. Right to the bone.

  “No!” Jack screamed. He grabbed the rope and held it tight. “Look what you did! It’s supposed to go between your legs!”

  Bert felt himself jerked upwards, being pulled off the stake. He looked down, saw the blood on the tip, felt his left leg go numb.

  “If it hit an artery, you’ll bleed to death!”

  Good, Bert thought.

  Jack tied the rope back to the shelves and climbed up the ladder. He spun Bert around and clucked to himself, inspecting the wound in a frantic, worried manner.

  “I think it’s okay. I think it’s okay.”

  Bert blinked back the pain.

  “I wear diapers.”

  “I wear diapers!” Jack grabbed Bert’s shirt and pulled him close. “Do you want to play? We’ll do it this way, then!”

  Jack went to the top of the ladder and leaned on Bert’s shoulder so he couldn’t swing. Bert watched him take a long knife out of a sheath on his belt.

  “This time, the stake won’t miss.”

  Jack reached up to saw away at the rope. Bert closed his eyes and tried to brace himself. He couldn’t swing. He couldn’t get away. The stake was going to find its mark, and his terrible death would soon begin. Though not a practicing Jew, Bert’s lips silently formed the only Hebrew words he knew. Baruch atah Adonai. Praise the Lord.

  Then, suddenly, Jack cried out and there was no more pressure on his shoulder. Bert looked and saw the ladder tumbling over, Jack falling to the ground. And standing there, bare-chested…

  “Roy!”

  “Damn straight.”

  Jack hit the floor rolling. He came up in a crouch, still gripping the knife. His face registered surprise, and when he saw Roy it burned red with rage. He pointed the knife at him, shaking.

  “You! I killed you!”

  Roy had something big in his hands. It was a black garbage bag—one of the bags from Abe’s car that had been filled with cans. Roy held it at his side.

  “What’s this I hear about diapers?”

  “What’s this… I hear… about diapers!”

  Jack lunged, thrusting at Roy’s stomach with the knife. Roy danced away from the blade and swung the garbage bag like a baseball bat, smacking Jack in the face and chest with a hard, solid blow.

  It wasn’t filled with cans. When the bag burst open on impact, it covered Jack with a tangled mass of fishing lures. Hundreds of them.

  Jack wailed and pitched to the floor. He rolled around, thrashing and kicking. Hooks were stuck in his clothes, his head, his neck. One hand was hooked to his chest, and the ot
her was tugging at a bright orange object stuck in his eye.

  The smart thing would have been to just stop moving and wait for help. But Jack became more and more hysterical. He somehow got to his feet, screaming like a little girl, and sprinted away from Roy, tearing off in the opposite direction.