The Ultimate Mystery Thriller Horror Box Set (7 Mystery Thriller Horror Bestsellers)

by Perkins, Cathy

  “Hello,” he said quietly, and smiled. A white car had pulled up behind him as he approached a light. Bowden made a left turn, and the car followed. He’d picked up a tail.

  He pulled into a parking lot and made a U-turn, forcing the other car to continue down the road. He was laughing as they drove by. He made another left turn and caught the traffic light. Another left turn, then he drove out to the Miller’s.

  He parked in the clearing again, knowing that there were only the two places to park unless he wanted to drive up the driveway. He was almost certain that the tail he had lost belonged to Cooper. His training had been so ingrained that he lost them immediately, but he wondered if it could have been Bill Kent. Now he wished that he had forced a confrontation.

  He ran his hand over his chin and felt the hairs that had been growing for three days. He felt tired. It was because he was getting old. He didn’t have the energy he once did. He looked out at the rain that pounded around him, watching the large trees undulate in the heavy wind.

  Taking a deep breath, he opened the car door. The wind jerked the door from his hand, swinging it open and slamming it against the hinges.

  The wet cold assaulted the bare skin of his face, making him squint against the force of the wind. He shoved the door closed and walked into the woods, knowing he was going to get cold and wet while he waited for the Miller house to empty. At least this coat was warmer than his first one. He needed to get inside, with enough time to thoroughly search the place. He squeezed his left arm against his side, unconsciously checking his gun. His right hand fingered his lock picks.

  He huddled beneath a big fir tree, which completely shielded him from the wind. Large drops of water dripped from branches high overhead and splattered against his clothes. The ground that he stood on consisted of rotten pine needles, causing it to be very soft and loose. He realized that deep grooves were forming where he shifted his feet, but he didn’t care. No one was tracking him and the police were too lazy to canvass the area this far from the house.

  Three hours passed very slowly. He rubbed his red nose with the back of his hand, remembering the last time he had watched the house for a chance to get in. That watch lasted about 52 hours. He prayed this one wouldn’t be as long. He didn’t have the time.

  The front door swung open, and a lithe figure stepped out, bundled against the elements. She made a dash for the only vehicle in the driveway, a white Acura Integra. There was a series of hurried movements as a clumsy attempt was made to enter the vehicle. An attempt hampered by woolen mittens. He recognized the girl. It was Tara Miller. He didn’t know where she was going and was unable to guess by the clothes that she wore.

  The exhaust pipe billowed out a white cloud. The Acura jumped forward, turned, and sped away from the house. He watched it disappear and waited for five minutes, just in case Tara returned to retrieve a forgotten item, then he jogged to the front door. The lock surrendered to his picks much more quickly the second time, and the door swung open.

  9

  The warm air hit Bowden’s cold face, and his eyes began to water. He stepped inside and shut the door behind him, locking it and securing the deadbolt. He shoved back the hood of his coat and ran his hands through his black hair, raising it up in odd places and probably causing it to look like a disheveled shag carpet. He hurried to the office. He hated working this way, not knowing how much time he had and not having someone to watch the road and alert him of a returning vehicle.

  The file cabinet was free standing with four drawers. Bowden opened the top one. It contained bank statements, insurance claims, and financial records, all belonging to the Millers.

  He closed it and opened the next drawer down. He leafed through the files, looking for something with Fonck’s name on it. The third drawer contained property records and he pulled them out. He found original purchase papers and building permits from when Pierre Fonck bought the land in 1920. Fonck listed a billing address in New York. Tax records showed that the house had been completed in 1923.

  He rubbed the stubble on his jaw and asked himself a question. Was the house built in preparation for Pierre’s exit from Wall Street?

  Pierre had three sons and the house was left to the oldest son, Flavio. Flavio had three sons and a daughter, Kay. Two of the sons were dead; the third was Vincent Fonck. Vincent had two sons that he hadn’t seen in years. Kent was the oldest, with a constantly growing rap sheet. The younger son, William, managed to keep his record clear, even though he hung around Kent.

  Chase kept searching the old papers, looking at the names and jotting down the connections in his notebook. There were still a lot of blank spaces in the family tree.

  Family. He looked up from the files and his gaze settled on the wall across from the desk but he wasn’t seeing anything. His mind was working on the Fonck family. It was a big family with a hidden secret that was partially exposed. They were starting to realize that Grampa Flavio had a lot more money than anyone expected. He suspected that money came from Pierre.

  Bowden took a deep breath and blew it out through tight lips. Sam Riley’s investigation of Pierre Fonck was based on a conspiracy to crash the market when a group of insiders sold millions of shares while the market was inflated. That was in 1929. The tax records showed the house as a vacation home until the 1930 estate taxes listed it as a primary residence.

  He stuffed the heavy file back into the drawer and slowly closed it. He stood with his hand on the handle for several seconds. It looked like the house and property had been built in preparation for the crash. It was in an isolated area, well away from the horrific effects that the resulting depression would have had on the major cities.

  He wondered if Pierre ever thought that the Great Depression would reach all the way across the United States. Would he have realized that it would last until 1941? Was it even possible for a group of people to set up the stock market for a crash? Many laws had been passed since then to keep it from happening again.

  A shadow flittered across the wall. It moved towards Bowden and he watched it intently before realizing that it wasn’t a shadow being cast, but a vague gray form.

  His throat constricted, choking his voice. “Riley?”

  A faint whisper returned to him. It was an answer to his question.

  “Yeahhhhhhh.”

  “What’s wrong? Why can’t I hear you?” Bowden asked, taking a step closer to the wavering form.

  “Toooo light,” was the soft reply.

  Bowden closed the window blind and shut off the lights. Riley’s image took on a stronger form. The bluish skin tone and gaunt features reminded him of their first encounter.

  “I found the painting,” Riley said, his voice hollow.

  Excitement flooded Bowden and his heart rate jumped. All tiredness vanished.

  “Where?”

  “In the bunker.”

  “What bunker?”

  “Well, I guess it’s a bomb shelter. It’s under the house.”

  “How do you access it?”

  “The stairs… through here,” Riley explained, as he stepped through the bookcase in the office.

  Bowden watched as Riley disappeared into the wall. He stepped over to the bookcase and ran his fingers along the edges. It was really old and made of hand-carved wood. Numerous shelves were divided and subdivided by ornate columns. New books had been stacked in with the old.

  Riley’s head appeared from the bookcase and he looked over at Bowden before stepping out. “Sorry about that.”

  Riley pointed to a small shelf near the right side of the bookcase and about five feet off the floor. “Pull this shelf straight out, about an inch.”

  Bowden grabbed the shelf and pulled. It slid easily in unseen groves. The four hardbacks on the shelf slid out with it.

  Riley pointed at an identical shelf about two feet below it. “Now this one.”

  He pulled and it slid forward.

  “Those were the latches,” Riley explained. “Now, grab this column an
d pull the bookcase away from the wall. It’s hinged on the left.”

  Chase gripped the column that Riley indicated and pulled gently. The bookcase swung away from the wall. It was well balanced and moved easily. He looked into the entry that had been created. A steel door, hinged on a concrete floor was open and propped against the opposite wall. The hole in the floor was four feet square, with stairs leading down.

  He stepped in and pulled the bookcase closed. A handle was mounted to the back of the case and two levers were accessible to latch the case closed. He could tell that the movement of the levers not only latched the door, but pulled the shelves back in.

  He stood in complete darkness. He couldn’t see the wall that his hand rested on. He couldn’t even see his hand or the stairs that he knew were at his feet, but he could see Riley perfectly.

  “This is weird,” he muttered.

  Riley shrugged one shoulder. “Yeah, I’d forgotten about this. No one’s used it for so long, that I didn’t think the Millers even knew it was here. Flavio used it from time to time, that’s how I knew how to open it. I’d seen him do it a couple of times.”

  “No. I was talking about you. I can see you, but I can’t see myself.”

  “Oh?” Riley laughed.

  “What?”

  “It’s kind of like, you’re the ghost.”

  Bowden shivered. “Don’t say that.” He dug into his pocket and wrapped his fingers around his penlight. He flicked it on and the beam caught Riley in the eyes. The narrow beam of light caused Riley’s head to disappear, although the rest of his body remained visible.

  “Whoa!” Bowden exclaimed, taking an involuntary step backwards against the wall and redirecting the light into the hole at his feet.

  “What?”

  “Uh, nothing.”

  The steps leading down were very steep and he had to duck to clear the edge of the floor. The room they entered was a perfect twelve-foot cube. Shelves ran along two of the walls from floor to ceiling and were almost completely bare. A small table with an old chair stood at the far end of the room. The painting rested on the table, leaning against the wall. A single 60-watt bulb hung from an outlet in the center of the room.

  He followed the exposed wiring to a switch on the wall and flipped it on. Nothing happened. He flipped it a couple more times and ended up leaving it off. The bulb was probably burned out.

  Riley walked to the desk and sat on the corner, looking at the painting propped there. “This is the painting that everyone is so anxious to get hold of. I remember watching Mr. Fonck… Flavio, paint the thing.”

  Chase walked slowly towards the painting, taking it in as a whole. It was painted from the point of view of a sailor on a boat looking across the waves to a rocky cliff covered with trees. The forecastle of the boat and some of the instrument panel and instruments were visible, as the sailor or captain looked out the window. The window of the boat framed in the landscape.

  “The value is in the painting,” Bowden quoted as he rested his hand on the back of the chair.

  “What’s that?”

  “The will that Flavio left stated that he ‘placed great value in the painting.’”

  “Do you think that this is an actual landscape?” Riley asked.

  “It could be.” Chase pulled the chair out and sat down. “But how many linear miles of coast are there?”

  “Well, it is a rocky cliff. That should cut it down a lot.”

  Bowden rubbed the stubble on his chin, as he searched the painting for clues. The compass was visible, indicating a northwest heading. The depth gauge registered 15 fathoms.

  “What’s a fathom? Five, six feet?”

  Riley leaned over and looked at the painted gauge. “Six feet, I think.”

  “Ninety feet of water. That’s not much help. Every place around here is going to have ninety feet of water.”

  “I’m guessing the green tint to the water means it’s the ocean. At least that’s what I’ve been assuming.”

  “Yeah. So what’s northwest of here?”

  “The San Juan Islands.”

  Chase turned the penlight to the lower left hand corner of the painting where the edge of a map could be seen. He rose from the chair and leaned across the desk to look at it more closely, hoping to find the Islands painted in.

  The corner of the map had been painted in detail, there just wasn’t any information to be garnered from it. Lines on the edge indicated nautical miles and the topography of the ocean floor was evident, but it was such a small piece of the page that no landmark was shown. The whole rest of the map was off the edge of the painting.

  “What do you think?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. I’ve been looking at it all morning. There are obviously some clues here: the compass heading, the depth of the water and the lay of the land. But why would he paint all of this in detail, and then paint a map where the only thing you can read is the page number?”

  Bowden slid the chair back and stood up. He took a couple steps back from the table and looked at the picture again. He ran his hand through his hair and nodded to himself. It all had to be here. The will only mentioned the painting.

  “Wait a minute. The boat is in the painting. Maybe we are looking at this all wrong. Maybe the money is not on the land but in the boat that the person is looking from.”

  Riley jumped off the table. “Flavio had a boat. Yeah. The Treasure Trove.” He spun around and looked at the painting again. “The Treasure Trove!” he shouted again, slapping a fist into his hand. There was no noise and he paused a moment to look at his hands.

  “Aptly named,” Bowden mused. “I think Kay said that Flavio sailed out of Everett.”

  “That would put him closer to the San Juans.”

  Chase paced up and down the little room. His mind raced through the facts that he knew, tying little things together. The burglary that Barry Miller reported never happened. Whoever put the painting in the room had intimate knowledge of the house. There was no way that the room had been found accidentally. That meant that Barry and Kay were involved, and probably Tara. One of the other relatives might have known, but they would have looked in the cellar.

  If Barry moved the painting, he could have killed Adam. Michelle was still missing. If Barry abducted her, the best hiding spot for her would have been in the cellar… she never would have been found. So, Bowden concluded, Michelle was involved. Then where would she be? He only had one guess. The boat.

  The deafening sound of the steel door slamming shut echoed in the small, concrete room. Bowden jumped. He flicked the penlight off and dove to the floor, drawing the Glock from the holster. He watched the stairs, wondering if someone had stepped in and closed the door behind them. A brief second of total silence in the total darkness convinced him that someone had slammed the door and locked them in.

  He flicked the light on and ran up the stairs. He slowed as he reached the top, his heart pounding violently in his chest. He ran his tongue over his lips as he put his arm over his head and pushed up on the door, testing it. It didn’t move.

  He flicked the light off and stuffed it in his pocket, then fastened the Glock into his holster. He turned around so that he was facing downstairs and, bent over double, scooted up onto the fourth step. He pressed his back flat against the door, his legs bent beneath him. He sucked in a deep breath, exhaled, took another breath and shoved. His muscles strained… burned. The joint in his left knee popped. He closed his eyes and clenched his teeth as he strained to lift the steel door.

  Nothing moved.

  He groaned as he slid out from under the door. His back ached. He turned the penlight on and searched for a latch. There wasn’t one; just a heavy metal bar that could be slid into place to prevent people on the outside from opening it. That bar wasn’t keeping the door shut; something else was… something on the outside.

  He stepped down into the room, placing a hand on his lower back as he straightened up. He flashed the penlight onto each cement wall, the
n down at the floor and up at the ceiling. It was all cement. He scanned the shelves. They held a couple of plastic jugs that were empty. There were no tools. There was no food or water.

  He swallowed and looked over at Riley who still stood by the desk. “We’re trapped.”

  Riley took the fedora off his head and played with the crease. “They’ll come back.”

  Bowden wondered about that. “To make a deal or to see if I’m dead?”

  “I think they’ll let you sit in the dark for a while, and then come back and talk.”

  Chase shook his head in disgust. “Who designed this thing? The door should open in so you can’t get trapped like this. What an idiot! Hell, I’m an idiot. I should have grabbed the painting and taken it out of here.”

  Riley poked the fedora onto his head. “Shoulda, woulda, coulda. It’s all second guessing and won’t do you any good.”

  “You can’t open the door, can you?” Bowden asked wishfully.

  “Can’t even push on it. I’d just go right through it.”

  Bowden stuffed his hands deep into his pockets. His head dropped down onto his chest and he started pacing. He realized that he had just immersed himself in blackness and took the hand holding the penlight out of his pocket. The beam caught the desk and he went over to it. There were two drawers in it that he opened. Both were empty.

  “I can’t believe this!”

  Riley looked up.

  Angry at himself, Chase flung one of the empty drawers against a wall and it splintered, sending bits of wood sailing back at him. He ducked, then snatched the second drawer free and hurled it to the ground. The drawer cracked. The back and one side fell off and he kicked the rest of the drawer with his booted foot. The drawer slid across the cement floor and banged against the wall on the other side.

  Except for Bowden’s heavy breathing, there was no sound in the concrete vault.

  He fixed his gaze on Riley. “What are you still doing here?”

  “I was…”