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

by J. A. Konrath

  “And how long do you plan to stay in Canada?”

  “A week,” Joan answered.

  “Business or pleasure?”

  “Pleasure.”

  “Do you have anything to declare?”

  Joan nudged Tom with her elbow. “The gentleman does.”

  Tom raised an eyebrow. “What do I want to declare?”

  Her smile was full wattage. “Independence.”

  Tom resisted the urge to groan. “How long have you been waiting to say that?”

  “All flight. That was the high point of my entire week.”

  “Better than that movie deal you just landed?”

  “Sometimes it’s the little things.”

  He thought about her snuggling next to him on the plane. “Can’t argue with that.”

  They located the rental car place and got wheels, and then took a room at the Montreal Ramada, using the name Mr. and Mrs. Johnson. If Tom had any allusions about sharing a room with her, they were thwarted when Joan suggested they get a double.

  “We can each have a bed.”

  Even though she looked bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, Joan insisted on a shower. Tom went through the phone book and located six local fire departments. He jotted down their numbers. Then he found a nearby copy shop and noted the address.

  There were still three hours before the shindig was to begin, but already the police were out in force. On a drive-by, Tom counted at least a dozen uniforms and plainclothes cops swarming around the entrance. Also standing vigil were several Secret Service agents, complete with Ray Bans and earpieces. A block away, three Mounties on horseback waited on the corner.

  As Tom had expected, they’d never be able to get very far into the building, let alone the room where the President was speaking.

  After Tom took a quick shower, they stopped at a nearby restaurant and located the pay phone by the restrooms. Tom made sure it worked, and then copied down the number.

  Their next stop was a department store, where they got a digital camera. From there it was on to the copy place Tom had found in the phone book. Like its American counterpart, it offered a variety of services. Tom rented some computer time and got to work.

  An hour later, they had business cards with the restaurant pay phone number printed on them. Using the camera, they also made and laminated some picture IDs, complete with the Canadian logo. Enbridge. Tom punched holes in them and attached some alligator clips. He also bought a clipboard, and spent a few minutes hunting through the various waste baskets in the store, stuffing it with official-looking papers.

  Back at the hotel, Joan showed him how to work the meter. It was a technical-looking piece of equipment the size of a portable radio, complete with dials, switches, lights, and a red needle.

  “It’s from the movie Galaxy Invaders. The heroes used it to detect the heat given off by the alien.”

  “It detects heat?”

  “It doesn’t detect anything. It’s phony. See this button? Press it and the needle jumps and the red light blinks. This button here makes it beep. The rest are decoration.”

  Tom hefted the prop by the handle, waving it to and fro, pressing the buttons on the sly to make the needle jump. While he practiced, Joan unpacked her suitcase.

  “I hope this fits. I guessed you were a 42 long.”

  Joan tossed over a bright orange jumpsuit. Tom inspected it. Not only was his name embroidered on the vest below the Enbridge logo, the logo was also on the back.

  “This is perfect.”

  “Got you this too.”

  She tossed Tom a white hard hat, also with the logo. They shrugged their jumpers on over clothing, as they were meant to be worn. Tom noticed that they even had some grease marks on them, appearing as if they’d been in use for a while. A nice touch.

  “You ready?” Tom noted that even with the hard hat on, Joan looked cute.

  “Ready. Are you sure you want to be the point man? I took some acting classes in school.”

  “I’m a cop. I’m used to dealing with uncooperative people.”

  Joan furrowed her eyebrows. “I just wish we had a back-up plan, in case this ones tanks.”

  Tom felt the same way. But they didn’t have a choice. “We can do this.”

  She nodded. Tom checked his watch. It was 3:48. Less than half an hour to save the President’s life.

  They got on their way.

  Bert went to the railing and looked down upon the Senate Chamber one floor below him. From this vantage point, he could see everything.

  The room was big and round, brightly lit. Rows of mahogany desks were arranged in a semi circular pattern, and Bert was surprised to see half of them empty. Occupying the remainder were Senators, running the gamut of race, age, and sex. Their dress was as varied as they were, three piece suits to business casual. They drank coffee and bottled water and had little side conversations with each other and their aides while a voice thundered over the loud speakers in a monotone that sounded quite bored.

  Elsewhere, activity. Interns and messengers coming and going, a group in a box off to the side that included some reporters and photographers, most of whom looked supremely disinterested. Several video cameras were in operation, recording everything for C-SPAN.

  Not what Bert had been expecting. Perhaps he’d harbored images of important men in robes making grand speeches that held the audience in rapt attention. This was more like a college seminar, except less formal.

  Bert turned his attention to the central dais. Sitting above the Senate was the Vice President, holding what looked like a white rock in his hand. Bert figured it was a gavel. There were several people on the tier below him, and Bert could see someone standing diligently in the rear that was undoubtedly Secret Service.

  Bert looked around the gallery where he stood. It was a large hallway that wrapped around the Chamber, kind of like a long, circular balcony. Several dozen onlookers milled about, many staring down at the proceedings, but just as many whispering to each other or walking around. Bert counted four Capitol Policemen among them, and assumed there were more he didn’t see. Everything was relaxed, casual. Roy caught his eye and gestured for him to come over. He was standing next to a large bust of a familiar face. Thomas Jefferson.

  “Almost time.”

  Bert checked his watch. Eleven minutes after four. They had less than three minutes. Bert searched for Abe in the crowd, but couldn’t find him.

  • • •

  Fifteen minutes earlier, in Montreal, Tom had dropped Joan off at the restaurant and was attempting to drive through the large group of people that had gathered around the hotel storefront. Waiting for the President to make his exit, Tom guessed. They were being kept off the sidewalk and away from the entrance by velvet ropes. Tom honked, cutting a swathe through the crowd, eventually edging the car up to the hotel. He was instantly surrounded by cops and the Secret Service.

  “What the heck is going on?” Tom made a show of looking around.

  “Sir, you’ll have to move your vehicle.”

  Tom pointed to the ID clipped to his chest.

  “I’m from Enbridge Natural Gas. Just got a call there’s a leak in the building.”

  An agent, eyes impenetrable behind his sunglasses, consulted a clipboard. Then he spoke quietly into his lapel mike.

  “What’s going on here?” Tom made a show of looking around him. “Some kind of party?”

  “The US President is speaking.”

  “Hey, buddy, I don’t care who’s speaking. I need to get some readings.”

  “You’ll have to wait in the car until you’re cleared to enter the building.”

  “I don’t need to enter the building. I need to check the foundation first.”

  The secret service guy was impassive.

  “Look, if you don’t let me check for a gas leak, you’re endangering this entire block. Once the saturation reaches five percent, it’s flammable. Anyone in there lights a cigarette, plugs in a toaster, rubs their socks on the car
pet—BOOM!”

  The agent made his decision and allowed Tom out of the car. Tom grabbed his prop meter and followed him to the front of the building. When he got there, two men frisked him.

  “What the hell?”

  They searched his pockets and came out with the phony business cards. Tom watched as one of the agents called the phone number on his cell while another examined his gas detector.

  “Careful! That’s sensitive equipment.”

  The agent on the phone asked several questions. Tom had to assume Joan was following the script, answering as Enbridge Natural Gas and confirming both the leak and Tom. When he hung up he gave Tom a small nod.

  “Go ahead, take your readings.”

  Tom frowned at them, looking annoyed, and then took off his hard hat and ran his fingers through his hair. While doing so, he palmed the three small vials that were taped inside the hat band.

  Then he took the meter back and began to point it around the sidewalk. He eventually moved up to the front doors of the hotel and hit the button on the handle, making the needle jump.

  “Uh-oh. It’s a leak alright. Can you open the door?”

  “We still don’t have internal confirmation,” one agent said to another.

  Tom snapped a vial in his fingers, softly breaking it and releasing the liquid. A rotten egg smell drifted up from his hands.

  “Can’t you smell that?”

  The smell was mercaptan. It was the primary ingredient in stink bombs, a novelty shop classic. It was also the chemical used by gas companies to add scent to otherwise odorless natural gas. Harmless, but nauseating. Tom glanced at the agents and could tell they noticed the smell. One even fanned the air with his hand.

  “You better let me take a reading inside.”

  They had a brief talk among themselves, and then allowed him in, accompanied by two escorts. The lobby was full; more cops and Secret Service, and several hotel employees. Tom broke another vial and hit the switch on the sensor to make it beep.

  “The levels are high. You’d better get these people out of here.”

  “Which people?”

  “The whole damn building. The whole damn block. Do you see these levels?” Tom pointed to his meter needle, which he held in the red. “You’ve got to clear this place out, shut off the main. I don’t even want to be standing here.”

  The guy turned away, speaking into his microphone. Tom looked at his watch. It was already 4:11. They were badly behind schedule. Where was Joan?

  • • •

  At that same moment, hundreds of miles away in Washington DC, Bert frantically searched the crowd for Abe. He finally spotted his stovepipe hat on the other side of the gallery. Bert wiped his palms on his jeans and swallowed hard. The moment of truth had come.

  “Friends, Senators, citizens!” Abe’s voice bellowed, matching the volume of the droning Senator who was on the house sound system. “I came here today because it is the historic anniversary of the Gettysburg Address.”

  The gallery focused on Abe. Bert stared down into the chambers and noted that many of them, too, were staring up. Some were chuckling. The Senator who had the floor had stopped speaking. Bert had no idea if it really was the anniversary or not—he guessed not. But like everybody else he was momentarily spellbound by Abe, his words, his presence.

  Abe didn’t hesitate. He launched right into it.

  “Four score and seven years ago, our forefathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal. No matter how they were, uh, created…”

  Bert stared as two of the Capitol Police had begun to move on Abe. He turned his attention to the Senate floor and saw that the Vice President appeared amused.

  “There, in the box.” Roy nudged him. “That guy with the camera. I think it’s Attila.”

  “Now we are engaged in a great civil war, conceived and enduring, consecrating great brave men who greatly and bravely braved great things with, um, bravery.”

  Bert watched the man, whose camera was aimed at the VP while every other eye in the place was on Abe. Warning bells went off in Bert’s head. That little poison dart they’d found on Jack…

  “We need to do this. Now.”

  Roy reached into his jacket pocket and removed an unwrapped pack of Black Cat firecrackers. A string of fifty.

  The police grabbed Abe, and he threw his hands up in the air dramatically, tossing out dozens of sale fliers for Honest Abe’s Used Car Emporium. They cascaded down into the Senate chambers.

  “We are met on the great battlefield of that war!” Abe continued, even as a third policeman jumped on him. “This is America! I have a right to free speech! You can’t silence me! I won the war, dammit! I freed the slaves! I probably did a whole bunch of other important stuff!”

  Bert screened Roy from view as he lit the match. He kept his eye on Attila and held his breath.

  The firecrackers began to go off while still in the air. They fell onto Chambers with the rapport of machine gun fire, causing instant panic on the floor. Senators ducked under desks, covered their heads, screamed out loud. The Secret Service man dove on the VP, pulling him to the floor. Bert turned to look at Attila. He was making his way through the crowd, heading for the exit. But had he gotten his shot off?

  Roy tried to pull Bert to the ground, to imitate what everyone else was doing. But Bert had to see, had to know if they’d completed their mission. Finally, after almost a minute of waiting, a swarm of agents and police had surrounded the Vice President and were taking him out of Chambers. The VP appeared shaken up but alive.

  Bert let out a breath, unaware he’d been holding it.

  “We did it. We saved him.”

  He turned to look for Abe. The cops were pulling him roughly out of the gallery, the cuffs already on. As he passed Bert he grinned and gave him a wink.

  “I assure you gentlemen I had nothing to do with that outburst. I just wanted to sell some cars…”

  They hauled him off. The room became a hubbub of commotion, everyone talking at once, everyone unsure as to what had just happened. Bert checked his watch. Seventeen minutes after four. They had done their job.

  But how about Joan and Tom?

  • • •

  At 4:12 in Montreal, Tom had almost succumbed to panic. The authorities weren’t evacuating the building, and there was no sign of Joan.

  Then, like an angel sent from heaven, Joan stepped into the hotel lobby, more Secret Service agents around her. She had an official-looking clip board at her side and Tom’s cell phone in her hand.

  “Oh my God. Can you smell that? What are the levels, Tom?”

  “Three percent.” Tom broke the last vial, almost gagging at the stench.

  “We’ve got to clear these people out of here now!” Joan dialed a number on the phone and pretended to talk to their home base. Sirens could be heard in the distance, getting closer. Before showing up, Joan had called all six of the local fire departments and told them about the gas leak. In a few minutes it would be pandemonium.

  Tom checked his watch. It would be close. Were these lunkheads going to get the President out of there or what? Finally, six agents went running off down the hallway. Bravely rushing to save their leader, Tom hoped.

  “There’s a gas leak!” Tom shouted to everyone in the lobby. “Nobody panic!”

  They panicked. Tom flowed out of the lobby with the rest of the people, just as several fire engines arrived. He met up with Joan and they melded into the crowd and watched. The Secret Service allowed the firemen in, and shortly began to assist in evacuating the building. When Tom saw people coming out wearing tuxedos, he guessed the Presidential dinner had been evacuated as well.

  “Looks like we did it.”

  Tom nodded. “They probably ushered the President out a side door.” He checked his watch and noted it was 4:17. If the assassination had happened, the Secret Service would be corralling people for questioning rather than lettin
g them leave. The relief he felt was like a drug, purging everything bad from his body.

  Joan made a face. “For just saving the world, that was kind of anticlimactic.”

  “You think so? I was fighting the whole time not to throw up. Let’s get out of here, find out how the others did in DC.”

  Tom made his way through the crowd, having to push and shove because it was so densely packed. When he got to the car he took off his hat and turned around to talk to Joan.

  She was gone.

  The guy to Joan’s left uttered a small gasp, and then dropped dead on the asphalt.

  Before she could even react to what was happening, someone had grabbed her arm and pulled her away.

  “Poison dart. Move, or you’re next.”

  The man had a beard and mustache, and he was wearing glasses. He had a large, odd-looking nose, too big for his face. But the eyes—those deep green eyes—were instantly recognizable.

  Vlad.

  He was pressing a camera up against her. Joan guessed it was just a housing for his weapon—that’s how he’d planned to kill the President.

  “I said move, or you’ll die where you stand.”

  She looked for Tom, but he’d vanished into the crowd. Then she turned to Vlad. His face was red, his lips pursed. He was seriously angry, and Joan had no illusions that he would kill her if she didn’t move. But would it be better to die here, quick and easy, or go with the psycho someplace private, where he could take his time?

  Her feet began to move of their own volition and he led her away. Joan could guess the horrors in store for her, but she didn’t want to die. Even if she’d regret it later. They made their way to the other end of the street, Vlad with his arm locked around hers, the camera pressed to her side. He cut through an alley, taking her away from the commotion, the people, Tom. Every muscle in Joan’s body was coiled. She kept waiting for something, anything, that would give her an opportunity to get away. The further they walked, the less likely it seemed she would get one.

  “How do you think Stang will react when he hears you failed?”

  Vlad’s rage was instantaneous. In one motion he released Joan’s arm and backhanded her across the face. She hadn’t been prepared for such a sudden blow, and found herself falling backward, landing on the tarmac. Her hard hat had flown off, bouncing against a Dumpster. Bright motes swam in her vision. She brought a hand up to her face. It came away red. Nosebleed.