STIRRED

by Blake Crouch J. A. Konrath

  A Jacqueline “Jack” Daniels/Luther Kite thriller

  by

  Crouch & Konrath

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Text copyright © 2010 Crouch & Konrath. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer

  P.O. Box 400818

  Las Vegas, NV 89140

  Authors’ Introduction

  Part I

  Intermezzo

  Part II

  Part III

  Epilogue

  Authors’ Note

  Cast of Characters

  Storyline Endnotes

  Bonus Features

  Afterword

  The Crouch/Kilborn/Konrath Universe

  About the Authors

  J.A. Konrath’s/Jack Kilborn's Works Available on Kindle

  Blake Crouch’s Works Available on Kindle

  Coming Soon

  Stirred was written as a standalone thriller and requires no prior knowledge of either Crouch’s or Konrath’s respective bodies of work. It is the conclusion to J.A. Konrath’s Detective Jack Daniels series and Blake Crouch’s Andrew Z. Thomas/Luther Kite series.

  In Stirred, the reader will come across occasional hyperlinks when a character first appears, or when a passage in the story refers to a novel in the Crouch/Kilborn/Konrath Universe. Clicking on this underscored text will take the reader to a brief description of either the character or the referenced novel, for those interested in getting more information, clarity, or explanations of past events. However, these links are in no way necessary to understanding and enjoying the Stirred storyline.

  Our goal is to provide the reader with a complete picture of the thirty-nine stories, novellas, and novels that comprise our interconnected body of fiction, and the e-book format has given us the opportunity to unify our works in a way that has been impossible in the print world.

  We hope this state-of-the-art feature enhances your enjoyment of Stirred, and crystallizes your understanding of the Crouch/Kilborn/Konrath Universe, 1.85 million words and growing…

  All the best,

  Blake Crouch & J.A. Konrath

  “Midway upon the journey of our life I found

  myself within a forest dark,

  For the straightforward pathway had been lost.”

  DANTE ALIGHIERI, The Divine Comedy

  March 31, 1:45 A.M.

  He wasn’t her type.

  For starters, too old. Forty-five or forty-six, she guessed—almost fifteen years her senior—and as a rule she didn’t date men with long hair. Blame it on the lingering, private shame she still harbored from her early-nineties Michael Bolton phase.

  Worse, he’d come at her with no game at all.

  Had simply sidled up behind the vacant chair beside her and asked, “Would you mind if I sat here?”

  And yet, here she was, almost four hours later, still talking with him at the bar in the Publican and letting him buy her another glass of the excellent New Zealand sauvignon blanc she’d been drinking all night.

  As the bartender set a fresh glass in front of her and poured from the bottle, she figured it was Rob’s eyes that had kept her in the chair, kept her from just slipping out the next time she excused herself to go to the little girls’ room, a trick she’d pulled so many times before. Rob’s eyes were black and intense for sure, but they were also listening eyes. She hadn’t met a man like him in years. Most of the bores who hit on her might have presented a better exterior package—thousand-dollar suits and cologne and all the metrosexual accessories a single, successful man in Chicago was expected to flaunt—but they were also, almost without exception, unimaginative, self-obsessed bores.

  Admen, lawyers, executives, the occasional fund manager who apparently thought she’d come downtown to hear every excruciating detail of his new boat and winter condo in Aspen, or what an adrenaline rush it was—“like a drug, like sex, you know, babe?”—to do whatever it was he did with other people’s money.

  No, Rob was different.

  Most nights when she took herself out looking for Mr. Right, she rarely spoke. Just sat there and sipped wine and listened politely until she couldn’t stand another moment of feigning interest.

  But tonight she’d done most of the talking, and he’d seemed genuinely interested as she rambled on about her job at Fireman’s Fund Insurance Company, where she worked as a claims representative.

  He’d asked smart questions, and not just about the current job, but about her future goals, where she wanted to be in five years, in ten.

  And he wasn’t that bad looking.

  Could’ve dressed a little nicer for a place like this, but in truth, his faded jeans, black cowboy boots, and plaid button-down only underscored the overall vibe she was getting from Rob.

  Real.

  This was a real guy and probably out on the town for the same reason she was—to meet someone who might bring meaning to what had become the almost unbearable monotony of her day-to-day existence.

  The bartender, a heavily pierced and tattooed young man who barely looked old enough to sell alcohol, stopped in front of them and said, “Just to let you guys know, we’ll be closing in ten minutes. Get you anything else?”

  Rob glanced over at Jessica. “One more before they kick us out?”

  Jessica looked at her wineglass—still a few sips left, though she would’ve loved one more since the bursts of passion fruit and lime were going down all too smoothly. But she didn’t want to come off as a lush on what was turning into their first date.

  “I think I’m all done.”

  Rob paid their tab with a big wad of cash and then stood and helped her into the pre-owned Martin Margiela jacket that still embarrassed her when she thought about what she’d spent on it.

  “Thank you, Rob,” she said.

  “My pleasure, Jessica.”

  She could feel the awkward moment coming as they made their way through the empty restaurant, the servers already setting the tables with fresh linens and clean glass and silverware for tomorrow. In ten seconds, they were going to be standing on the sidewalk, the question of whether the night was over or just beginning hanging in the air.

  She wasn’t going to sleep with him—she knew that.

  But maybe a quick nightcap back at his place or hers? No harm there.

  Rob opened the door, and then they were out on the sidewalk in the cool spring night.

  Jessica stopped near the street, her hands in her pockets, half-looking for a cab, half-wondering if she needed to.

  “I’m really glad I took a chance asking if I could sit next to you,” Rob said.

  “Me, too,” Jessica said. “It was a really lovely evening.”

  Come on, continue it. I’m sending you the signal. If I’d wanted our time together to be over, I would’ve already said good—

  “Any chance I could interest you in a late-evening walk?”

  Rob extended his arm, the boldest move he’d made yet, and she melted a little bit.

  “That sounds very nice.”

  She took his arm, felt a cord of muscle under his shirt.

  “I was thinking maybe we’d walk toward the river,” Rob said. “It’s so beautiful at night.”

  They headed east on West Fulton, the clouds glowing with the reflection of the city lights.

  “It’s funny,” Rob said as they walked under the Kennedy Expressway, “past three Mondays I’ve gone out, just like tonight. You’re the f
irst woman who invited me to sit down.”

  “And I’m glad I did,” Jessica said. “I go out a lot, too.”

  “By yourself?”

  “Yeah. It’s just…well, you know…so hard to meet people.”

  “To meet the right people.”

  “Exactly.” She laughed. “Everyone’s so fake.”

  “It’s an epidemic,” Rob said. “People never say what’s really on their mind. It’s all a game these days.”

  “I’m right there with you, Rob.”

  The streets were quiet, the last of the revelers stumbling out of bars in search of their cars or a late-night cab.

  Straight ahead, the downtown rose into the night like a range of luminescent mountains, and Jessica could smell the river. The breeze had taken on a cold, dank component as it swept toward them across the water.

  They walked up North Canal, the river flowing like liquid glass.

  Halfway across the bridge on Kinzie Street, Rob stopped, and they leaned against the railing.

  Watched the current pass beneath them.

  Watched the lights of downtown twinkling in the dark.

  A comfortable moment of silence, she thought. And a good omen, perhaps, that they could share one on a first date.

  Rob pointed toward the old Kinzie Street railroad bridge. “You ever see it up close?” he asked. “From the shore, I mean?”

  “I’ve never walked over to that side of the river.”

  “Well, come on.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, let’s go.”

  He took her by the hand, his grip firm and dry, and they moved at a brisker pace across the bridge and then south down the river walk. His stride was brisk, purposeful, and it challenged Jessica to keep up with him.

  “Are you sure we’re allowed to be here?” she asked.

  “Of course. The city is ours.”

  It was two fifteen when they arrived at the base of the old railroad bridge. It soared into the sky, locked open in a raised position at a forty-five degree angle over the Chicago River.

  Sirens wailed somewhere in the distance, but otherwise the city stood as quiet as one might ever hope to hear it.

  Snowstorm quiet.

  Not another car nearby except for a white van parked near the path.

  Rob put his arm around her.

  She let her head tilt over and rest against his shoulder, wanting to kiss him, thinking if it was going to happen, now was the moment—standing by the river and feeling like they were the only two people still awake in this gorgeous city.

  He was staring up at the steel girders of the bridge, and if she could only get him to look down at her, she felt sure it would happen.

  The perfect culmination to this glorious surprise of an evening.

  “A penny for your thoughts?” she said. She could feel her heart thumping—hadn’t kissed a man in more than six months.

  Finally Rob looked down at her.

  “I was thinking,” he said, “how beautiful you’re going to look hanging from the end of that bridge over the water.”

  The wine buzz vanished.

  She stared up at Rob, trying to replay what he’d just said, certain she’d misunderstood, but his grip on her shoulder tightened.

  “Wondering if you heard me right, Jessica?”

  A strong, metal ache filled her mouth, her heart pounding now, something clenching up inside her chest as the strength flooded out of her legs.

  “Happy to repeat myself,” he continued. “I said, you’re going to look so beautiful hanging from the end of that bridge.”

  “Rob—”

  “That’s not my name. I’d prefer you call me Luther. Luther Kite. Perhaps you know me by reputation? I’ve killed a lot of people.”

  She screamed for less than a second before his hand covered her mouth, everything happening so fast and with such brute force, her head caught in the crook of his arm as he muscled her toward the base of the old railroad bridge, toward the shadows.

  Mace. I have Mace.

  The can was in her purse, probably buried at the bottom. She hadn’t even touched it since she’d bought it two years ago after taking that self-defense class with Nancy and Margaret.

  He dragged her into the shadows, and Jessica felt him lift her—airborne for two seconds—and then her back slammed hard into the ground, the breath driven out of her.

  Motes of light starred her field of vision, pure panic and oxygen deprivation, but her left arm—thank God—was free. She felt her purse underneath her, got two fingers on the zipper, tugging it open as he whispered in her ear, “No more screams, Jessica. You understand me?”

  Frantic nodding.

  “Screaming will only make it worse on you. So much worse.”

  She jammed her hand into the purse, the back half inaccessible, crushed into the grass under the weight of her and this monster.

  “If I take my hand away from your mouth, will you be quiet?”

  She nodded again as her fingers grazed the top of the canister, fighting for a workable grip, her chest blitzing up and down. Even her hardest workouts, when her pulse redlined for several agonizing minutes, could never achieve this level of cardiac frenzy.

  The man took his hand away, and she stared up at him, her fingers clutching the top of the canister, straining to pull it out from underneath her.

  He clamped one hand around her throat, still pinning her under his weight, and with the other grabbed something out of a black duffle bag that she’d failed to notice until now. He couldn’t have had it with him. Which meant he’d planted it here.

  “I’ll let you do whatever you want to me,” she said, trying to steady the quiver in her voice. “Just don’t hurt me. Please, God, don’t hurt me. I won’t tell anyone, I swear to you. I just want to live.”

  Luther grabbed her right wrist and said, “Give me your hands.”

  He was reaching for her left when the canister of Mace broke free.

  She found the trigger.

  Swung it up in a single, fluid movement, and then she was pointing it in Luther’s face, her finger squeezing, not even certain if she had the damn thing pointed in the right direction, just praying she wouldn’t Mace herself.

  A burst of pepper spray exploded sideways out of the nozzle as the man swatted the canister out of her hand.

  Luther smiled down at her, Jessica so frozen with concentrated terror that she didn’t even react as he turned her over and bound her wrists together with a thick loop of plastic.

  When he rolled her back over, she said, “Please…is there anything I can do?”

  She was crying now, and the acrid stench of urine in the air belonged to her.

  “Try not to throw up. You’ll choke to death and miss all the fun.”

  He reached into the duffle and took out a roll of duct tape.

  Tore off a strip, slapped it down over her mouth just as it occurred to her to scream again.

  For a moment, the tears blinded her.

  When she blinked them away, she saw a knife with a curved blade, and on some plane of consciousness removed from this moment, it occurred to her that it resembled the talon of a bird of prey.

  Moaning through the tape now, begging him not to do this, making desperate promises.

  He sat on her waist, her hands bound behind her back, and no amount of squirming could jolt him off.

  Luther glanced over his shoulder—a quick look up and down the river walk.

  She turned her head as well and through the blades of grass saw the path still empty.

  “Like I told you,” he said, “the city is ours.”

  He grabbed her chin, turned her head back toward him. She stared into his eyes, trying to make some connection through the pitch black, but there was nothing in them approaching compassion or sympathy or anything human.

  “It’s coming,” he said. “Are you ready?”

  She shook her head, tears welling again.

  “Fighting it isn’t going to stop a thing.
This is your last moment. I suggest you try to meet it with grace. If it helps, I didn’t pick you because of any perceived flaw. You were a nice woman, and I’m sure you’d have made Rob, or anyone else, very happy. Just your bad luck is all. You were just one of many that I’ve been watching. If any of the other Shedds had been receptive, you and I would never have met.”