3 TERRIFYING THRILLERS

by Jude Hardin

  “Just pull around back.”

  Christine started the car, steered it around to the service alley, parked beside a stack of pallets.

  She put the car in park. Her fingers were trembling. “Please don’t kill me,” she said.

  It was the first time John had seen her show any nerves. “Give me the key to your handcuffs,” he said.

  She gave John the key.

  “Now cuff yourself to the steering wheel,” he said.

  She cuffed herself to the wheel. John felt to make sure the cuff on her wrist was tight enough, but not too tight.

  “You’re going to leave me here?” she said.

  “They’ll find you,” John said.

  “They’ll find you, too, Mr. Rock. They’ll hunt you down and shoot you dead. You’re a suspected cop killer, and now you’ve assaulted another police officer and you’ve kidnapped me. Things will go a lot better for you if you just give yourself up right now.”

  “Goodbye, Officer Kelly.”

  John Rock pulled the keys out of the ignition and tossed them in the backseat. He opened the passenger’s side door, got out, gently pushed the door closed. He stuffed the 9mm into the waistband of his new pants and walked away.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Lisa Whitaker couldn’t sleep. She tossed and turned in bed, unable to find a comfortable position, unable to relax. She needed to sleep, because her thirteen-year-old grandson had a baseball game in the morning, and she never missed his games if she could possibly help it. She needed to sleep, but she couldn’t. She was concerned about her future. Very concerned. She’d seen on the local news that Dr. Theodore Bratcher had been assaulted in his home, and later she’d seen the bulletin on CNN that he had died after surgery.

  Dr. Theodore Bratcher was Lisa’s employer.

  She worked in the front office at the clinic, mostly answering phones and setting up appointments. The pay wasn’t great, but it was all she had. Now she wondered how she was going to make the rent and car payment this month. She would have to look for another job, of course, but the economy was bad and jobs were scarce. Unemployment benefits would help, but they wouldn’t cover all her bills.

  Poor Dr. Bratcher. One of those right-wing religious fanatics must have finally gotten him. On the news they said the man suspected in the assault had driven off in Dr. Bratcher’s car, and had later died in a fiery crash. Served him right. Fucking kook.

  Lisa stared at the ceiling, wondering how in the hell she was going to make it now, when she heard a car door slam. She got up and peeked through the blinds. There was a taxicab in her driveway. A pretty young woman climbed out of the driver’s side and walked toward Lisa’s front door. She’d obviously been sent to the wrong address.

  Lisa hurried into her housecoat and slippers, and she was already standing in the foyer when the driver knocked. She cupped her hands together and looked through the peephole. The young woman on the other side of the door looked familiar, but Lisa couldn’t remember where she’d seen her before. Lisa rarely called for a cab, so she didn’t think that was it. Maybe the young woman had been a patient at the clinic. Bingo. The one with twins a few months ago. Lisa couldn’t remember the young woman’s name, but she remembered that she’d been carrying twins. Aborting a multiple-birth pregnancy wasn’t something that happened every day, and it wasn’t something you soon forgot. What a coincidence the mother was driving a cab now, and that she just happened to show up at Lisa’s house. Coincidences made Lisa nervous.

  She decided against opening the door. “Can I help you?” she shouted.

  “You called a cab?”

  “No, I did not. Wrong address.”

  “Are you sure? This is where my dispatcher sent me.”

  “I’m sure. I think I would know if I called a cab or not.”

  The young woman pulled out a cell phone and punched in some numbers. A few seconds later, she said, “I’m not getting a signal here. Would you mind if I used your phone?”

  Damn. Lisa didn’t want to open the door, and she certainly didn’t want this woman coming into her house.

  “I don’t have a phone,” Lisa said.

  “You don’t have a phone?”

  “Sorry.”

  “OK. Well, thanks anyway.”

  Lisa moved to the living room window and watched the driver climb back into the cab. She watched the headlights come on, and she watched the car back out of the driveway and disappear down the street. What a relief.

  Lisa walked to the kitchen and poured herself a drink of water. She had a bottle of Ambien somewhere, some sleeping pills she’d bought a while back for infrequent but annoying bouts of insomnia. Dr. Bratcher had been kind enough to prescribe them for her, saving her a trip to her family practitioner and a twenty-five dollar co-pay. She needed one of those pills tonight. Otherwise, she was never going to be able to sleep.

  Now where the hell had she put them? She ferreted through the drawer where she kept her vitamins, no luck there. She walked to the bathroom and looked in the medicine cabinet, but all she found was a crusty tube of Clearasil her grandson had forgotten when he spent the night one time and an expired bottle of cough medicine.

  Well, shit. If she couldn’t find a sleeping pill, she would just drink herself to sleep. There was an unopened bottle of Chablis in the refrigerator, leftover from last Thanksgiving. As rarely as Lisa drank alcohol, a glass or two of wine should put her out like a light.

  She walked back to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and then she remembered. The bottle of Ambien was on the top shelf, hiding behind a bag of oranges and a block of Velveeta and some things in Tupperware that probably needed to be tossed. Lisa reached in and grabbed the pill bottle and closed the refrigerator door.

  The label said to take one or two capsules at bedtime, as needed for insomnia. Lisa had never taken two, but it didn’t seem imprudent. The bottle said it was OK, and she definitely needed to conk out soon. The baseball game started at ten in the morning, and she wanted to get there early to get a good seat. Plus, she had a gift for her grandson, and she wanted to give it to him before the game.

  She fumbled with the child-proof cap, finally got it open, shook two capsules out and popped them into her mouth. She swallowed them with a small sip if water, not wanting her bladder to wake her up in three hours if she did manage to fall asleep. She walked to the bedroom, took her housecoat and slippers off and climbed back into her queen-size Serta pillow top. She pulled the top sheet to her neck and curled up in a fetal position, and within ten minutes she was off in dreamland.

  And in her dream, she heard the sound of glass shattering.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  John Rock would have jacked a car at gunpoint if necessary, but he lucked into a better situation while he and Officer Christine Kelly were shopping in Walmart. The clerk in the electronics department had gone off on a break or something, and had left his or her keys on a shelf behind the counter. John reached in and nabbed them as he walked by. There was one of those electronic pushbutton door openers on the ring, so all John had to do was walk through the parking lot pressing the button until he came upon the right car. It was a Toyota Corolla. Very basic, no frills, but it was fairly new and it had a full tank of gas and it started on the first try. John figured the clerk wouldn’t miss the keys or the car until his or her shift was over, probably at seven or eight in the morning. At least he hoped that’s how it would play out.

  John didn’t have a current driver’s license, but that was the least of his worries. If a cop pulled him over, he was going directly back to jail. Or maybe not. Maybe they would skip all that rigmarole this time and just shoot him. That seemed the more likely scenario.

  On top of Lori Lorry wanting him dead, he was a fugitive from the law now as well. He wondered how far the Corolla would go on a full tank of gasoline. Maybe four hundred miles. He thought about getting on the interstate and just hauling ass to somewhere far away. It would have been the easy thing to do. But John Rock had learned a lon
g time ago that the easy thing to do was rarely the right thing. He needed to find Lori Lorry again and stop her for good this time. He needed to stop her from killing more people. He needed to warn Jana that Lori was on the loose again. So he didn’t get on the interstate. He took a left and drove toward the hospital.

  He pulled into the parking lot, found a space, shut the car off and walked into the main entrance. He didn’t want to enter through the emergency room, afraid someone there might recognize him from earlier.

  A young black woman with short brown hair and long fake fingernails sat at the reception desk. She asked John if she could help him.

  “I need to see a patient named Jana Lorry,” he said.

  “Sorry, sir, but visiting hours ended at nine.”

  “It’s very important that I see her now. Please.”

  “Are you family?”

  “I’m her father,” John lied.

  “Hold on. I’ll have to clear it with her nurse.”

  She dialed the nurses’ station and asked if it was OK for Jana to have a visitor. When she disconnected, she looked up at John and said, “That patient left AMA, sir. You’re her dad and you didn’t know that?”

  “What’s that mean? AMA?”

  “Against medical advice. She left on her own, against the advice of her nurse and her physician.”

  “Oh. Can you tell me anything about a patient here named Theodore Bratcher?”

  She clicked some keys on her computer. “What did you want to know?” she said.

  “Could you tell me his room number? He’s a friend of mine and—”

  “His room number is the morgue. He died a while ago after surgery. It’s been on the news and everything.”

  “Thanks,” John said. He started to walk away, turned back and said, “Would you mind if I use your computer for a minute?”

  “I wouldn’t mind, but I could get in a lot of trouble. Sorry. The computers are for staff only.”

  “Then could you look something up for me?”

  “Does it pertain to some sort of business you have here at the hospital?”

  “Not really,” John said.

  “Then I can’t. I’m sorry, sir. I would like to help you, but—”

  “It’s OK. I understand.”

  John exited the building, walked back to the Corolla. Opened the door and climbed in. He sat there for a few minutes, thinking about how he might be able to gain access to a computer at three o’clock in the morning. Normally he used the public library, but of course they were closed at this hour. Maybe he could find an all-night café and steal a laptop or something.

  Or maybe he wouldn’t have to.

  He opened the glove compartment, remembering a news article he’d seen a while back. The upper management at Walmart deeply discouraged employees from using their personal cell phones while at work, and some stores had even banned the practice altogether. John was hoping there might be one of those fancy new phones you can get on the internet with in the glove box, but there wasn’t. He pulled out the owner’s manual and a pile of junk mail and a small zippered case containing some makeup and a couple of condoms and a cigarette lighter. No phone. No iPad. No Kindle Fire. On the very bottom of the glove compartment there was an envelope containing the vehicle registration and a proof of insurance card.

  John opened the envelope, saw the owner’s name and address. It was an apartment building on Greenwich Drive. He opened his street map, saw that the address wasn’t far from the hospital. He wondered if the woman was married or if she had kids at home in bed. Probably not. Most married people wouldn’t be carrying emergency condoms around in a little case.

  John started the car and headed toward the address on the registration. There was a latch key on the ring with the key to the Corolla, so it shouldn’t be any problem getting into the apartment. Since he had borrowed the woman’s car, maybe she wouldn’t mind if he borrowed her computer for a while as well.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Tori Lorry was back inside her mother for the first time since the abortion, and she had to say it felt pretty good. Jana was young and beautiful, and she had a nice fit body. Tori planned on having all kinds of fun with Mommy before killing her and dragging her sorry ass to hell. All kinds of fun!

  Tori had parked the cab a couple of blocks away. Walked back to Lisa Whitaker’s house, hid behind a stand of shrubs skirting the driveway. She’d waited there until the lights went off, and then she’d waited another thirty minutes.

  There were ten frosted sidelights surrounding Lisa Whitaker’s front entranceway, five on each side. Once she figured Lisa was good and asleep, Tori lifted one of the prefabricated concrete retaining wall blocks from the flower bed and used it to smash the rectangular window closest to the doorknob. Then she reached in, careful not to cut her arm on the jagged pieces of glass still in the frame, and twisted the lever on the deadbolt.

  No alarm sounded. No dog barked. Tori had made quite a bit of noise getting in, and she kept expecting to hear Lisa rushing to the front of the house to see what the hell was going on. But it didn’t happen. The house was utterly silent.

  If I were a woman pushing sixty and living alone, I would definitely invest in an alarm system, Tori thought. But so many didn’t. Too bad, so sad. Now it’s time to die.

  Lisa Whitaker was just a receptionist, just an average woman trying to live an average life with an average paycheck.

  Tori knew that.

  In the grand scheme of things, Lisa Whitaker was a nobody.

  Still, Lisa was making a living, at least indirectly, by killing other people. Lisa had answered the phone the first time Jana called the clinic, and had booked an appointment for the very next day.

  And what a brutal and painful day it was. In Tori’s mind, Lisa was partially responsible for her and her sister being scraped away like barnacles from the side of a boat. Now it was Lisa’s turn to suffer.

  Tori slinked through the living room and into the kitchen. A jaundiced bulb over the stove provided enough light to navigate the tight little galley, and Tori started gathering some supplies in a plastic mop bucket.

  Butcher knife.

  Steak knife.

  Measuring cup.

  Ice Pick.

  Whisk.

  Cheese grater.

  Scissors.

  Dishtowel.

  Matches.

  Lighter fluid.

  Salad tongs.

  Saran Wrap

  Potato masher.

  Drano.

  Turkey baster.

  Rubber gloves.

  Scouring powder.

  That should do it, Tori thought. If she needed anything else, she could always come back.

  She noticed a bottle of sleeping pills left out on the counter. Lisa must have taken one earlier, which explained why the breaking glass didn’t wake her. Excellent, Tori thought. She couldn’t have scripted it any better.

  She headed for Lisa’s bedroom. She felt like skipping and whistling a little tune. This was going to be so much fun, she could hardly stand it.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  John parked the Corolla, climbed the stairs to the second floor apartment. From the front window he could see that there was a light on inside, and when he put his ear to the door he could hear adult contemporary music softly playing. He rang the bell, and then knocked. Waited. When nobody answered, he opened the door with the latch key and walked in.

  There was an overstuffed sofa and matching armchair in the living room and a gigantic entertainment center with stereo equipment and a flat screen television and a fish tank. The owner had left a lamp on, and had left the stereo playing at low volume, presumably to make intruders think someone was home. Nobody was.

  The computer desk was in the bedroom. John sat down and clicked on the icon to open the Internet. He went to Google and typed in Dr. Theodore Bratcher, and then clicked on the link for Dr. Bratcher’s website.

  As he had hoped, there was a page with a list of the staff mem
bers who worked at the clinic. Names and pictures. Dr. Bratcher was dead now, of course, as was Jeri Dawson, the registered nurse who assisted with the procedures. There were three others listed on the website: Dawn Kline, s nurse anesthetist; Lisa Whitaker, an administrative assistant; and Shannon Morris, an ultrasound technician. John figured they were all on Lori Lorry’s hit list, along with Lori’s mother Jana.

  Which reminded him, he should probably call Jana first.

  He found the number online, and her father answered on the fourth ring.

  “Hello?” Sleepy voice.

  “Yes, Mr. Lorry, my name’s John Rock. I’m calling regarding your daughter Jana. I know it’s very late, but—”

  “Is she okay?” Mr. Lorry said.

  “I was hoping she was there with you. Is there another number where I can reach her?”

  “Who are you? What’s this about?”

  “I have reason to believe your daughter’s life might be in danger,” John said. “I know this is going to sound crazy, Mr. Lorry, but I’m a psychic medium. I used to have a television show called Break on Through. Maybe you remember it. Anyway, I—”

  “A psychic medium? You mean you talk to dead people and shit?”

  “They talk to me. Sometimes.”

  “Good gravy. What the hell has Jana gotten herself into now? Listen, my daughter’s in the hospital, and you can’t talk to her. Whoever you are, I want you to leave her alone, you understand?”

  “Perfectly,” John said.

  “I have your number right here on my caller ID. If you call here again, I’m going to report you to the police.”

  “I won’t bother you anymore,” John said.

  He hung up. He didn’t want to go into too much detail, because he didn’t know if Jana had told her parents about the abortion or not.

  Her father thought she was still at the hospital. She had left against medical advice, but she hadn’t gone home. Not good. Not good at all. Lori had gotten inside her mother before, and John feared it had happened again. He feared Lori was controlling Jana now and using her for more of the sinister vengeance she’d perpetrated earlier in the day. If that was the case, no telling what kind of hell was being raised.