J.A. Konrath / Jack Kilborn Trilogy - Three Scary Thriller Novels (Origin, The List, Haunted House)

by J. A. Konrath

  “Francheesie,” Abe explained. “They split open a quarter pound hot-dog, stuff it with cheese, then wrap it up in bacon and deep fry it.”

  Abe picked his up and took a large bite, grease dripping down his chin. Bert frowned. “I think I can hear your arteries harden.”

  “The secret is the lard. Some places use vegetable oil, and it just isn’t the same.”

  Bert went to work on his fries.

  “So what’s the next step? Do we hit the newspapers, or go straight to Letterman and Leno?”

  “We have to stop the people who want to end our lives.”

  “Yeah yeah, after that. Do you have any of this scientific evidence stuff?”

  “Nope.”

  Roy’s mouth was occupied by a burger that looked a lot better than Bert’s choice. Maybe he’d trade.

  “Hey Roy, half your burger for my francheezie?”

  “Hell no. Looks like a fried donkey dick.”

  “What about that dead science guy? Didn’t he take notes?”

  “Stang has it all, and he’s not going to hand it over.”

  Abe polished off his dog and licked his fingers. “Way I see it, we could do it three ways. Go through official channels and try to get the media behind us, then let them prove the truth. Or break into the Senator’s place and get the proof ourselves. You gonna eat your donkey dick?”

  “Help yourself. What’s the third way?”

  “We rob some graves. We can start with Lincoln and Jefferson. Where’s your brain at?”

  Roy grinned. “I ask him that all the time.”

  “Some guy has it at Princeton. Abe, you don’t seem to understand how serious this is.”

  “You’re right. We should probably get agents. Someone to negotiate all the offers when they start pouring in. I know a guy at William Morris. Bernie something. He’s a big shot, represents Mr. T.”

  They had pie, and more coffee. Bert soon gave up trying to convince Abe that his life was in danger. The guy was on their side, and if they stuck together it would hopefully be enough.

  “Where are you guys staying?”

  “We haven’t decided yet.”

  “There are a few hotels near the airport. Some pretty good bars, too. We’re going out to celebrate, right?”

  Bert didn’t know if that was the smartest move.

  “I’m up for a beer. You, Bert?”

  “Well, Tom is—”

  Roy nudged Bert with an elbow. “Tom is in LA with a hottie. We don’t need to check in with him for another two hours. A drink or two can’t hurt.”

  “Come on, Bert! Live a little!”

  Peer pressure won, and they agreed to go to a bar named the Porter House, on Pine Lake Rd.

  “Only a few miles away, walking distance to the Ramada Inn. I’ll point out the road when we pass it.”

  The sun had gone down, and the cold wind made Bert consider a jacket. They all piled back into the Lincoln, Abe verbally debating between rock stardom and a career in politics.

  “I could be President, right? Wouldn’t you vote for Lincoln?”

  “Damn straight.”

  “Bert, you want to be VP? And how about you, Roy? Secretary of Defense? Then Jefferson can be Secretary of State.”

  “How about Joan of Arc?”

  “She could cook for us. Keep the White House tidy. How could we lose with a ticket like that?” Abe pulled into his car lot and killed the engine. “I have to do some quick work here, roll up windows, move some cars. I’ll meet you at the Porter House. Think you can find the place okay?”

  “No problem.”

  “See you there, kids.”

  Abe waved and walked back into the little building.

  “He’s a pretty good guy.” Roy shook his head, smiling. “It’s like we hanging out with the Pope, or Michael Jackson.”

  “The guy has presence. But I wouldn’t buy a car from him to save my life.”

  “Check to see if my donut is done. That stool gave me an awful ache.”

  They hopped into the Beetle and got on their way. Bert checked the patch. Dry. He blew up the donut and listened for leaks.

  “Seems okay.”

  Roy adjusted the donut under him and sighed. “Thanks.”

  A sharp horn split the night just as they were passed by another vehicle. A tow truck, flatbed, going at least twenty miles an hour over the speed limit. Bert watched the truck speed into the distance until its tail lights disappeared.

  “You think we should call Tom, let him know how the meeting with Abe went?”

  Roy reached into his jacket pocket and took out his cell.

  “You do it. He’s on speed dial. Scroll down to his first name, it’s alphabetical.”

  Bert found Tom’s name and hit the send button. It rang. And rang.

  “There’s no answer.”

  “You got the number right?”

  “I think so.”

  “Lemme try.” Roy took the phone and hit some buttons. “He’s not answering.”

  “Maybe the phone’s not on him.”

  “Then he’d set it from vibrate to ring, and still pick it up.”

  Bert saw it before Roy did. The tow truck that had passed them moments earlier. It was in their lane, no headlights, coming right at them.

  Roy barely had a chance to hit the breaks before the collision.

  Bert didn’t hear the crash. He felt it.

  Impact. Spinning. Darkness.

  When Bert opened his eyes, all he saw was white. He couldn’t remember where he was. He could sense movement, a breeze. He looked to his right.

  A shattered window. Lights, in the distance, moving by slowly.

  He looked left. More white. He lifted a hand, pushed.

  Behind the airbag. Roy. Blood all over.

  A small stutter, then a stop. Someone opened his door.

  A dwarf. Only a foot tall. Bert stared at the top of his head.

  “Still alive? Good. We can have some fun.”

  The dwarf had a knife. He poked the airbag, deflating it, and reached over to unlock Bert’s seat belt. Bert was yanked from his seat and he fell, fell, hit the street. His head was pounding. There was something, some kind of humming, in his ears. He looked up.

  Not a dwarf at all. It was Jack. Up on the flatbed of the tow truck was a wrecked car. Roy, slumped over behind the wheel.

  Slug bug yellow.

  “Say good-bye to your friend.”

  Jack pulled a lever on the side control panel. The bed began to lift. The car began to tilt.

  “Those old Volkswagons, they used to be able to float. Let’s see how the new models do.”

  When the angle was steep enough, Jack pulled another lever. The Beetle rolled down the flatbed, over the railing of the bridge. Bert tried to move his head, to see. There was a splash.

  “Need some help?”

  Jack grabbed Bert’s hair and dragged him over to the edge. Below, in the river. The bug. Bobbing. Then it began to sink.

  “Roy…” Bert’s throat was hoarse, painful.

  “Roy. Well, now we know. The new bugs don’t float after all.”

  Bert watched as the car went down below the surface of the water, leaving only bubbles in its wake.

  “Roy…”

  “Roy.” Jack dropped Bert’s head. “Be happy for him. His pain is over. Yours is just beginning. In a few hours, you’ll be begging to join your friend at the bottom of that river.”

  Bert felt a hand on his collar, and then everything went black.

  The cold shocked Roy awake. His feet felt like they were stuck in ice. It quickly moved up to his legs, and then to his waist. The reality of his predicament came to him in a rush.

  He was in the car. Roy could remember the truck coming right at them. Trying to collide. Hitting the brakes too late.

  He reached to his right, feeling in the dark for Bert.

  Not there.

  Roy pushed aside the airbag, hands groping the dash. He found the switch for the interio
r dome light.

  Flipping it on revealed that the situation was worse than he thought. The water was above the windshields, streaming in through a hundred different cracks. It was now up to his chest, freezing.

  Roy attempted to open the door. Jammed. The button for the window didn’t work. He tried to scoot over to the passenger side, but his seat belt held him in place.

  Without warning the car lurched forward, like the first drop on a roller coaster. Roy’s head fell into the airbag, and he was immediately surrounded by cold, rushing water. He tore at the bag, trying to get it out of his face. It pulled free, but the water was now over his head. Frantic, his hand sought the seat belt button.

  The car jolted, hitting the bottom of the river nose first. For a moment it stayed like that, as if unable to make up its mind where to fall. Then, slowly, it lolled to the right, coming to a rest on its side.

  Roy released the seat belt and strained his neck up to find oxygen. There was a small air pocket near the rear window. One of Bert’s Samsonite suitcases floated by his head. He batted it away and managed to get one last breath before the water completely filled the interior. Then he turned towards the passenger door.

  But that’s what the car was resting on.

  Don’t panic, he thought, and then almost laughed. He was trapped in a flooded car at the bottom of a river. Why the hell shouldn’t he panic?

  The doors were blocked, but he could still get out through a window. Roy pushed at the front windshield with both hands, giving it all he had.

  It refused to budge.

  His gun. He could shoot through the glass. His hand went into his shoulder holster.

  Empty.

  The water that had filled the car was cloudy, dark. He tried to peer through the murk, searching for his revolver.

  The dome light chose that moment to go out. Everything went pitch black.

  Now it was panic time.

  Roy groped the floor blindly, lungs burning, becoming frantic. His hands touched something metal. Not his gun. It was square.

  Bert’s emergency camping pack.

  He unsnapped the case and felt around inside. Something long and round. A flashlight. He flicked it on.

  The beam was thin but powerful, cutting through the haze. Spots appeared in Roy’s vision, and he wasn’t sure if they were floating debris or if he was about to black out. His brain screamed for oxygen. The light played across the floor, the back seat. No gun.

  Roy aimed it up, looking for another air pocket. There were none. But floating over his head was the inflatable donut.

  He grabbed it, seeking the nozzle, pulling it out. Roy exhaled, clamped his mouth around the opening, and squeezed it while he took a deep breath.

  The air was stale, weak, not enough oxygen content. But it was enough to keep him in the game a little longer.

  Giving up on the gun, Roy half crawled, half swam to the rear window. He gripped the handle of Bert’s larger suitcase. Hard plastic shell. The one that the gorilla used to jump on in the old TV commercials. He brought it back and shoved with all his might at the windshield.

  Once. Twice. Three times.

  His vision became fuzzy again. He took another hit off the donut.

  Four. Five. At six, the suitcase knocked the window out of its setting. Roy let go of the handle, watching it disappear through the new opening. He followed it out, straining and kicking, his wet clothes and shoes holding him back. No good. It was like trying to swim while tied up.

  Don’t blow it this close to the finish line, Roy.

  He brought the donut to his face for the last time, lightheaded from all the carbon dioxide. He sucked out the remainder of the air and then struggled with his jacket, managing to free himself. Then he pulled off his shoes and kicked for what he hoped was the surface.

  His mind began to drift, almost as if he were on the edge of sleep. His lungs were two burning paper bags. Roy’s thrashing became gentler, feeble.

  Almost… almost…

  He broke the surface, and that first breath of fresh air was like being born again.

  Roy flopped onto his back, trying to float, greedily filling his lungs. Something nudged him in the head. A suitcase. He clung to it, dizzy, shaking, happy as hell to be alive.

  “Roy!”

  He looked to his right, along the river bank. It was Abe, waving at him. The tall man took off his shoes and his shirt. Then he waded into the water and swam up to Roy with even, powerful strokes. The two of them managed to beach the suitcase. Abe helped pull Roy onto the shore.

  “I was just driving up when I saw that guy drop your car over the bridge.”

  “Was Bert with him?”

  “I think so. He put someone in his truck.”

  “Which way did they go?”

  “West. Into town.”

  Roy tried to stand up. His legs wouldn’t support him. “We have to go after him.”

  “Shouldn’t we call the police?”

  “They won’t help.”

  “You should probably see a doctor. You’re bleeding.”

  Abe pointed to his head. Roy touched his hand to a sore spot, saw the blood glisten in the moonlight.

  “Help me with this suitcase.” Roy hefted it over to Abe. Twenty yards downstream, Bert’s other indestructible piece of luggage was snagged on some sticks along the shoreline. “We have to get that one too.”

  “What’s in them that’s so important?”

  “Half a million dollars.”

  “I’ll get it.”

  Abe jumped into the river with more enthusiasm than he had when going after Roy.

  The cop sat down on the riverbank and tried to gauge the extent of his injuries. His head was starting to pound, and his neck hurt like crazy. He felt his ass and wondered if he’d ripped the stitches. Roy coughed, and then spat. He was cold. He was in pain. But most of all, he was angry.

  The bad guys had left him for dead. Big mistake. He was going to make sure they found out just how big.

  “Got it!” Abe held the suitcase over his head like it was the Stanley Cup.

  Roy began to shiver. He took off his shirt and wrung it out, but it was still too cold to put back on.

  “We’ll go back to my place.” Abe heaved the suitcase next to its matching partner. “I have some clothes that will fit you.”

  “Do you have a cell phone?”

  “I’ve got one in the car. How are we supposed to find Bert?”

  “He’s got a transmitter on him. If I can get in touch with Tom, I can track him.”

  Abe bent over and began to put on his shoes. “And what do we do when we find him?”

  “Do you have a gun?”

  “No.”

  “We’ll figure something out. Let’s get to that phone. Where’s your car?”

  Abe grabbed both pieces of luggage and made his way up the sloping bank. It wasn’t steep, but in his wet socks Roy kept slipping. When he finally made it to street level he had half a dozen more cuts and bruises.

  Abe’s Lincoln was still running. Roy got in and turned up the heat. The cell phone was in the glove compartment. He dialed Tom’s number. It rang and rang. Had they gotten to him too?

  Roy hit the disconnect and dialed the number again, on the off chance he’d pressed a wrong digit.

  No answer.

  Roy punched the dashboard. “Dammit, Tommy! Where the hell are you?”

  “That was a complete waste of time.”

  Tom and Joan had managed to tear down most of the wine racks. Their efforts didn’t yield any usable weapons, or anything else that would get them out of the cellar.

  “Not a complete waste,” Tom disagreed. “At least we messed up his wine cellar.”

  “Good point. We sure showed him.”

  Tom sat down again, racking his brain for an answer. How many ways were there to open a door? Breaking it down was futile. The door and the jamb were solid oak, and the lock was heavy. They couldn’t take off the hinges, because the hinges were on the othe
r side. Picking the lock was out—even if they had a wire or a pin, Tom didn’t have the slightest idea how to do that.

  The final way, the one Tom saw a lot in his career as a cop, was called loiding. That meant sticking a thin piece of celluloid; a shim or a credit card, in between the door and the bolt, then easing it back. Unfortunately, Tom’s wallet had been taken with the rest of his things.

  “You wouldn’t happen to have a credit card on you by chance?”

  “Why? You want to go shopping?”

  “I wanted to try to loid the door lock.”

  “Sorry. Left my purse at Marty’s.”

  “Any jewelry? Rings, necklace, bracelet, watch?”

  “No. Don’t you have a watch?”

  Tom did. But it was a leather band, useless. He needed something long and stiff. Maybe one of the pieces of wood they broke off, or…

  “The nails in the boards. See if you can find any.”

  Tom searched along the floor, finding a corner section. He worked the pieces apart until he exposed a nail. It was thin, bent, about two inches long. Tom pounded it and the board against the concrete floor until it came out the other end.

  He found his way up the staircase and examined the doorknob with his fingers. There was a metal plate along the jamb, which the bolt rested in. Tom stuck the nail in between them and tried to wiggle it back and forth. They were too close together, and the nail was too thick.

  “Did it work?”

  “No. Nail’s too wide.” Tom rubbed his eyes.

  “I found a smaller one. Try this.”

  Joan climbed the stairs and handed Tom another nail. It was shorter, thinner. He wedged it in between the door and the jamb. With the tip, he could feel the bolt. But the nail was too short, and he didn’t have any leverage to try to push the bolt back.

  “It’s not long enough.”

  “Do all the girls tell you that?”

  Tom laughed despite himself. “You’re not helping the situation. Try to stay focused.”

  “We could try kicking it again.”

  “It’s a heavy door, with a heavy lock.”

  “Why don’t you try kicking the other side, by the hinges?”

  Why not? Couldn’t hurt. Tom aimed at the bottom of the door. He kicked, hard.

  Again. And again.

  “I think it gave a little.”