“So were the Menendez brothers,” Derek shot back.
Oh, snap.
But as they walked up to a mansion that reminded Mitchell of The House on Haunted Hill, Mitchell’s enthusiasm waned. The only things missing were a clap of thunder and evil laughter. Suddenly, Mitchell wasn’t so eager to be the first one through the door. Might be better to follow the guy in with the gun.
CHAPTER 11
Absolute silence put Derek on edge. Surrounded by forest, and not one cricket, coyote, or owl stirred. The trees swayed, yet the wind seemed absent. Where was the rustling of the leaves?
This place didn’t exactly look like a home, either. The last time Derek saw so much glass, stone, and steel was when he picked Mitchell up at the police station.
“We’ll only be here a short time,” Jill called back to Cecil.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“As much as Amanda is a royal ice queen,” Jill mumbled, “there are certain perks that I’m gonna miss.”
Derek kept his mouth shut. This was not the time to start another fight. Well, at least not with Jill. Hand resting on his gun, Derek walked up to the glass entrance. Once he had the Baxter brothers in custody, he would drive straight back to San Diego. Forget the LA office. He’d book them at his home field office, and then put in for a little R&R and head up to his parents’ cabin.
As soon as Derek’s foot touched the top step at the entrance, the glass door automatically swung inward. Okay, that was a little too helpful in Derek’s book. He glanced up and spotted the camera set above the door. So the brothers knew they were here. Cautiously, Derek stepped into the vaulted two-story marble foyer. Running his hand over the six-inch-thick glass door, he wondered what in the hell the Baxters were trying to keep out—or was it keep in?
“Solid bulletproof glass,” Jill whispered. “Supposedly, it could take rocket fire without a scratch.”
Drug lords didn’t have security this tight.
“No wonder they didn’t need a moat,” Mitchell said, giving a low whistle as he stepped into the foyer.
Derek almost forgot Mitchell was still with them. Almost. Mitchell had been quiet for all of one minute.
A breathy, female computer-generated voice filled the foyer. “Welcome to Castle Enterex. Please remove your shoes, and enter at your leisure. Your footwear will be polished while you visit the masters of the household.”
Mitchell bent, unlacing his shoes. “Why, thank you.”
“You’re most welcome, gentle visitor,” the computer voice replied.
Derek located four more cameras in the foyer, along with five motion sensors. Derek didn’t like this. Not. One. Bit. The brothers with the upper hand. The foyer was empty, leaving no place to take cover. The second floor landing was wide open for an ambush.
And his only backup? A beauty queen and a movie geek. Perfect. Maybe he should have gone through local channels. Gotten some real backup. But with less than three hours before the premiere, with the president in attendance? If the Baxters were leading up to something big, tonight could not get any bigger.
Next to him, Jill kicked off her heels and stood on the marble floor in her bare feet. “Probably best not to upset our hosts.”
Jill gestured for Derek to do the same.
Derek looked at Jill in amazement. He was an agent here to make an arrest—not to cater to some whack jobs’ fantasies.
“They want them off, they can come take ’em off me,” Derek grumbled. “Now let’s get this over with.”
A gas fire flickered in the room to Derek’s right. Above the mantel sat a giant movie screen. Steel-framed theater chairs were lined up, waiting for an audience. A stone piano sat in the corner. These guys were taking the whole save-the-trees thing a bit too seriously.
Mitchell slid across the marble floor in his socks, playing air guitar. He turned and slid again.
“What the hell are you doing?” Derek asked, through clenched teeth.
“Come on. You know you want to do it, too.”
Fine. Under different circumstances, Derek probably would have. But these were not different circumstances.
Breathe, Derek. Breathe.
Derek leveled his gaze at the camera above him.
“This is the FBI!” Derek announced. “We've come to interview Jeremy and Jason Baxter.”
Well, not exactly interview.
The glass door slammed shut behind them. In a single motion, Derek drew his gun, spinning around. But before he could reach the handle, the clang of the lock echoed in the cavernous foyer.
Shit. The hair on Derek’s neck prickled. Give the Baxters the benefit of the doubt? Yeah, right.
“Why do I have this awful feeling that coming here was a big-ass mistake?” Mitchell asked, hiding behind Jill.
Derek looked from camera to camera. “Show yourselves now!”
These brothers were nothing but cowards hiding behind their security cameras. Derek was going to tear this house apart until he found them. Then, the lights dimmed. Derek swung his gun from corner to corner, lifting it to the second-floor landing. This was not good. He needed to get Jill and Mitchell out of here, fast.
Above the fireplace, the screen flickered on. The brothers appeared, wearing matching blue velvet smoking jackets, pipes held between their lips. Their hair was swept to the side. What was it with these freaks and their costumes? First Charlie Chaplin, and now Errol Flynn. Derek would take a crack ho any day over these pale manipulators.
“Welcome to our pre-premiere gala,” Jeremy drawled.
A slim smile spread across Jason’s lips. “It seems that you’re just in time for the party games.”
“And you brought your own favors,” Jeremy said. “How kind.”
The screen split. A black and white image of Cecil, their limo driver, took up the second half of the screen. He was gagged and bound to a chair, struggling against his restraints. His eyes were wide with terror.
Derek’s grip on his gun tightened. Another innocent person’s life on the line. Cecil had just been doing his job. Damn it, why the hell didn’t he just ditch the limo and bring his SUV? Alone? Anger had clouded his judgment. Again.
“Yeah, Ms. Connor, I think this blows your ‘maybe they didn’t know what they were doing’ theory,” Mitchell said to Jill. Derek ignored him as he focused on the screen.
“The rules of the game are simple.” Jeremy puffed on his pipe, and blew out a thin stream of smoke. “It’s hide-and-seek. You find us before we kill you.”
“Jesus, that’s not how I played it as a kid,” Mitchell whispered.
“And our guest, poor Cecil here,” Jason tipped his head toward the left side of the television, “is hidden somewhere on the premises. Please feel free to look around,” Jason offered, as he swung his arms open.
“But don’t tarry ...” Jeremy warned as he tapped his watch. “You only have ninety minutes until your limo driver dies a horrible and excruciating death.”
Cecil’s image dissolved away.
Derek calculated when he made the call to Fred. He prayed that the warrant was on its way. Otherwise, they were screwed.
“The sheriff will be here with your warrants any minute,” Derek bluffed.
With a bored expression, Jeremy replied, “Hoping the cavalry will show? How quaint.”
“But much too late,” Jason shrugged. “The grand finale is swinging into effect.”
“The premiere will begin any minute!”
Ha. Well, guess the Baxter brothers didn’t get the memo that their precious premiere was axed. Score one for the Feds.
“You wish,” Derek stated. “The showing has been cancelled.”
Jeremy’s smile widened. “Oh, really?”
Ryan Seacrest appeared on the second half of the screen. A red carpet with celebrities dressed in tuxedos and formal gowns in the background. Scrolling across the bottom of the screen, “Terror in the Trees premiere tonight. Stay tuned for never-before-seen trailer.”
On-screen, the head o
f Temple Studios, Amanda Temple, replaced Ryan Seacrest as she greeted the president and first lady.
Derek turned on Jill, but she seemed as shocked as he was.
“Amanda couldn’t pass on the hype …” Jill said weakly.
Jason and Jeremy rubbed their hands together.
“As you can see, all is in readiness. And we must be off soon to join the festivities,” Jason said eagerly.
Jeremy held up his finger. “But first, we have a few friends to introduce.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Derek asked, worried about the answer.
Jeremy replied, “Ah! Here comes one of them now ...”
A bone-chilling howl rent the air. Derek pivoted around, gun ready to fire, to find a werewolf standing at the top of the stairs.
What kind of sick game was this? A man dressed in a freakin’ wolf man costume?
“We call them Simulcrams,” Jeremy stated proudly.
Jason’s eyes softened, as if he were talking about his own child. “Legends brought to cybernetic life through the wonders developed by Enterex’s research department.”
Growling, the wolf man limped down the steps, each footstep a loud thump against the marble. Its lips pulled back, revealing razor sharp teeth.
“Fuck this ...” Derek took aim at the beast’s chest.
On the screen behind him, Jeremy chided, “Our friends are constructed of titanium skeletons and silicone-laced skin. Indestructible.”
“Almost, dear brother,” Jason corrected. “There’s always a built-in weakness. Or where would all the fun be?”
“Quite right. How interesting would Superman be without kryptonite?” Jeremy asked.
Derek had no freaking idea what they meant, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t protect Jill and Mitchell from their madness. As the supposed beast lurched forward, Derek squeezed a round into the wolf man’s chest. Its body jerked, but continued down the steps.
“That’s not it, our stalwart FBI agent,” Jason scolded. “You must use your heads to survive.”
Jeremy made a slashing motion across his throat. “Or you’ll lose them.”
Derek pushed Jill and Mitchell behind him.
Jason set his pipe down. “Well, we must be bidding you all adieu.”
“And rest in peace,” Jeremy smirked.
Together, the brothers shrugged off their jackets, revealing camo gear underneath.
“Let the games begin!”
The screen went black. The wolf man tipped its head back, releasing another howl, just as the theme song to Mission Impossible filled the room.
Great. Just great. Derek popped off a few more rounds, hitting this “wolf man” square in the chest each time, yet each time, he kept coming.
* * *
“It’s no use. The bullets aren’t silver,” Mitchell said, putting a hand on Derek’s gun arm. Wow, those were a lot of muscles.
“It’s a damn machine,” Derek said, getting ready to fire. “Not a werewolf.”
“Actually, it’s not a werewolf, either,” Mitchell replied, shoving his glasses up on his nose. It’s an indestructible Simulcram, with one built-in weakness. Weren’t you listening?”
“What are you getting at, Mitchell?” Jill asked.
“These freaks are horror-film nuts,” Mitchell explained, getting more hyped the more he thought about it. “Like, nuts enough. I think they are a little whacked.”
“So?” Jill prompted.
“So, if they built them in a way to destroy their creations, the defect must be tied to the film monster’s weakness.”
The Simu-wolf snorted as he stalked another step, hackles up, teeth dripping ropy saliva.
Mitchell hurried on. “For a werewolf, we need a silver bullet. Of course, if you’re carrying any wolfsbane in your purse, that would be nice, too.”
“Silver?” Derek asked, casting his gaze around the room. His eyes locked on a fireplace poker. “How about silver-plated?”
“I don’t know. I guess,” Mitchell responded. “But why do you think it would be silver?”
Derek transferred his gun and grabbed the poker. “Well, that’s a gas fireplace,” he said, nodding toward the fake logs. “So, why exactly would they need a poker?”
Ah! The Baxters wanted to keep the game interesting, so they evened the odds. Wow. The brothers really were evil geniuses.
Before Mitchell could commend Derek on his quick thinking, the wolf man leapt onto the sofa in front of them, digging its long claws into the leather.
Derek shoved Mitchell out of the way, then waved the beast toward him.
“C’mon, you shaggy mutt,” Derek taunted. “Let’s tango.”
Oh, man, someone really needed to work on Derek’s lines.
The beast vaulted off the sofa at Derek, but the agent leapt to the side. Still, the beast’s claws tore through his jacket.
“Derek!” Jill screamed, as the beast launched again.
Mitchell had to hand it to the agent, because, man, he reacted with nearly cybernetic speed, twisting his body around, bringing the poker to bear. So, by the time the werewolf came at Derek, the poker was in place. The beast tried to compensate, but couldn’t in time. A sickly, wet sound announced that the werewolf had impaled itself on the poker.
The beast convulsed, sparks snapping and popping. A cloud of black smoke burst from the beast’s fried wires.
“Cool!”
A drop of saliva dripped onto Derek’s cheek. Derek grunted as he pushed the wolf man off.
“Are you okay?” Jill knelt by Derek’s side as Mitchell checked out the wolf man. It even smelled like wet dog. Unless anyone knew better, about the whole electrical fire in its chest and all, no one would ever know that it wasn’t real.
“I’m really beginning to hate these guys,” Derek stated as he retrieved his gun.
“What now?” Mitchell asked.
Derek aimed his gun at the glass door. “Screw these bastards,” the agent said as he fired. The bullet pinged off the door. Not so much as a scratch left behind.
The bullet whizzed by Mitchell’s head. “Hey! Watch it!”
“It’s bulletproof, remember?” Jill said, her face pale. “This place is a fortress.”
Mitchell hugged himself, shaking. “So we’re gonna have to play their version of Death Race 2000,” he whispered.
“It looks that way,” Jill said.
“Bullshit. Just because they set the rules, doesn’t mean we have to play by their rules,” Derek said.
“What do you mean?” Jill asked.
“They expect us to search for our driver,” Derek stated. “But that path is obviously a trap. We’re going to find another way out of here.”
Jill’s face fell. “But what about Cecil?”
“And that horrible, excruciating death thing?” Mitchell asked. Where there was one horrible, excruciating death, there usually were more.
Derek paced the foyer, the soles of his shoes squeaking on the marble.
“Number one. With these psychos, Cecil’s probably already dead. Number two. Assuming he is alive, if we try to find him, we’re all dead—guaranteed. My priority is getting the surviving civilians,” Derek jabbed a finger in Jill’s and Mitchell’s direction, “namely, you two—out. Then, I’ll coordinate with the locals and storm this damn place. That’s Cecil’s best chance at survival.”
“There’s only one flaw in your plan,” Mitchell pointed out. “There’s no way out of here.”
Derek smiled. “Oh, don’t you worry. I’ll find one.”
Yes, but would it be guarded by flesh-eating flukes? That was the question Mitchell wanted answered.
CHAPTER 12
Simon climbed the stairs to the projection room, holding the reels out in front of him and careful not to let them soil his suit. With what Amanda paid him, he could barely afford his fifth of the rent, let alone buy a new suit.
How did he get stuck with this damn film, anyway? Amanda looked messed up when she dropped it off.
She was a crazy bitch, but tonight … she looked like the Mad Hatter. Her washing-machine hair, her clothes stained with what looked like blood. Paint, my ass.
And what about Jill and Howie? Amanda didn’t like her authority questioned. So Simon knew it was only a matter of time before Jill got axed. But Howie? Howie was an even bigger ass-kisser than Simon was. So if this film got Howie fired, then Simon was screwed.
All Simon wanted to do tonight was sit next to Cameron Diaz, stalk her at the after-party, and, if he were lucky, get her phone number. But who was he kidding? Simon would be lucky if he got an autograph, especially if he got his suit stained.
Simon pushed open the door to the projection room. He wrinkled his nose in disgust. It smelled like a skunk wearing perfume.
Simon thought Woodstock was over. Someone needed to tell the guy in front of him. Dreads, tie-dye, brown corduroy pants. Yeah, this guy definitely had a solo party going on in here.
“Here’s Terror,” Simon said as he dropped the reels on the counter. This room made Simon grateful for his tiny cubicle back at Temple Studios. The drab, beige walls, metal shelves, lack of exterior windows, and musty smell made his office space look like paradise.
“Jesus, man. What did you do with this thing?” The projectionist, Bob, asked as he lifted the reel cover. “These reels are covered in … I don’t know …” He rubbed his fingers together and held them to his nose. “Something warm and oily. What’s up with that?”
“How should I know? Just do your job.”
Simon didn’t get paid to ask questions. And if this went off without a hitch, maybe he would finally get an office. Howie’s would be nice.
“Whatever you say, man,” Bob said with a slight, fake Jamaican accent. The closest this guy had gotten to the Caribbean was a Bob Marley tribute. “It’s your party.”
The projectionist lifted the reel out of the case. Simon approached the small, square window in front of the projector. He scanned the crowd. Will Smith. The Twilight cast. Damn. Simon should be down there schmoozing instead of stuck in this dank room with a stoner.
Don't Read After Dark: Keep the lights on while reading these! (A McCray Horror Collection) Page 26
