3 Great Thrillers

by Churton, Alex; Churton, Toby; Locke, John; Lustbader, Eric van; van Lustbader, Eric

“This is a personal query,” I said, flashing my high-voltage smile for good measure.

  “Well in that case, yes, I’m dating someone.”

  She was clearly insulting me or at least pretending to. Truth was, I didn’t even like her and certainly didn’t want to date her. I really just wanted to see if I could. What can I say, maybe it’s a guy thing, but she gives great soup.

  “Your dating situation,” I persisted, “would you classify it as a serious relationship?”

  “Yes, I would,” she said. “But I wasn’t certain about that until just now.”

  “Well congratulations,” I said dryly.

  “Well thank you,” she said, matching my tone.

  Suddenly, the heavy-set customer at the sushi bar yelled, “Fuck!” and jumped off his stool. He grabbed his throat and spun around in a circle as if his left foot had been nailed to the floor. “Holy Mother of God!” he screamed and spit a mouthful of something onto the floor—something I was pretty sure had to be the spider roll. He jumped up and down in a sort of death dance, coughing and shaking his hands profusely. He yelled, “I’ll sue you bastards! I’ll sue you for every cent you have!”

  The waitress ran out from the kitchen, took one look at him, and said, “Is hot, yes?”

  He gave her a withering look. “Yeah, it hot! It plenty, plenty hot! And I know you not recommend. But here in America, we have laws against serving battery acid. By the time I’m finished with you, you’re all going to wish you’d never left China!”

  The waitress and sushi chef looked at each other. She said, “We Japanese. Not Chinese.”

  The enraged customer flung his head toward the ceiling and yelled, “Fuck you!” He slapped his face twice, made a barking sound, and stomped off in a huff. Most of the customers laughed. Ally didn’t, so I stopped laughing and changed the subject.

  “So the police took Kathleen’s word over Ken’s,” I said. “About the beatings.”

  “Wouldn’t you?”

  “I would, in fact,” I said.

  I tried a half-spoonful of the soup and wondered if miso might be the Japanese word for week-old sweat socks.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” she said. “But I had reasons for believing Ken’s story.”

  “Such as?”

  “He never laid a hand on me. He never abused me verbally.”

  “That’s it?”

  “I never saw him lose control throughout our relationship. And even though Kathleen continued to accuse him of abuse, Ken never left her.”

  I raised my eyebrows and watched to see if her cheeks would flush. They did, just slightly. She’d basically just admitted to dating Kathleen’s husband while they were still married. We both realized it, but I was the only one smiling about it.

  “Look, Mr. Creed,” she said, “whether you want to believe it or not, Ken’s a decent guy. He was always there for his wife. He did everything he could to get Kathleen to seek treatment.”

  I looked at the photos. “He seems to have been very persuasive in that regard,” I said.

  She started to say something, then stopped and had some more soup. She looked at me and shook her head. Ally seemed comfortable with the silence, but I was even more comfortable with it. When she finally spoke, her voice was steady. “You may think I’m stupid, Mr. Creed, or gullible. But it was Kathleen, not Ken. You’d know it if you spent any time with him.”

  What I now knew, thanks to Ally, is what Ken Chapman would say to Janet if I confronted her with the photos and police reports. I couldn’t believe this scumbag had invented a back story that made him the victim! I mean, I could believe it, but I couldn’t believe it worked. But he had, and that put me in a quandary. If I couldn’t use the police reports, how could I prevent Janet from marrying this creep?

  I could always kill him. But I couldn’t kill him. I mean, I’d love to kill him, but Janet would know I did it, and she’d never forgive me. No, everything in my gut told me that Janet had to be the one to find out about Chapman. She’d have to learn about him in such a way that he wouldn’t be able to con her like he conned Ally David.

  The waitress brought our main courses. Ally gave a coy smile and purred, “Dig in, Spider-Man! Show ’em how tough you are!”

  I looked at the concoction on my plate. Every part of it was colorful, but the colors seemed wrong for the dish in a way that reminded me of Tammy Faye Bakker’s makeup. I pushed a few items around the plate with my chopsticks and may have seen little puffs of smoke. I decided to concentrate on the soup instead.

  When we left the restaurant, Ally said not to bother walking her back to the rotunda. I sat on a nearby bench and watched her walk away. About twenty steps into her departure, she lifted her arm and waved without turning her head. I wondered what gave her the confidence to assume I’d been staring at her ass that whole time.

  I sat awhile and thought about my ex-wife, Janet. It was clear I’d have to come up with something novel to help her understand the enormous mistake she was about to make in marrying Ken Chapman. I had an idea playing through my mind, but before I could put it on paper, I’d need to spend some time with Ken Chapman’s ex, Kathleen Gray.

  Kathleen was currently living in North Bergen, just outside New York City. Lou Kelly had run a credit check on her and learned she had recently applied for a home loan with her local bank. The loan was still pending, and Lou suggested I pose as a loan officer and use that pretense to set up a meeting with her. Of course, I could simply threaten her, Lou had said. I thanked Lou for the advice and explained that I wouldn’t need to rely on threats or a cheesy cover story. Truth, honesty, and an abundance of natural charm were my allies.

  I dialed her number.

  “Hello,” Kathleen Gray said.

  “Kathleen, my name is Donovan Creed and I’m with Homeland Security in Bedford, Virginia. I’d like to talk to you about your ex-husband, Kenneth Chapman.”

  The connection went dead.

  Not a problem. I could always fly into LaGuardia tomorrow and sweet talk my way into a dinner date with her. Since I had my phone out anyway, I decided to dial my mystery caller, the persistent person who shouldn’t have had my number.

  I punched up the number and watched it connect on the screen with no premonition of the effect this simple act was about to have on my life.

  3

  “Mister… Creed … thank … you for … re … turning … my … call.”

  At first I thought it was a joke. The voice on the other end of the line was metallic, choppy, like a guy on a respirator or maybe a tracheotomy patient who had to force air through a speaking valve in his throat.

  “How did you get my number?” I asked.

  “Sal … va … tore … Bon … a … dello,” he said.

  “How much did he charge you for it?”

  “Fif … ty … thou … sand … dollars.”

  “That’s a lot of money for a phone number.”

  “Sal says … you’re … the … best.”

  The tinny, metallic voice revealed no hint of emotion. Each word bite was cloyingly monotonous and annoyed the shit out of me. I found myself wanting to imitate it, but resisted the urge. “What do you want?” I said.

  “I want … to em … ploy you … part … time … the way … Sal … does.”

  “How do I know I can trust you?” I said.

  “You can … torture … me … first … if you … want.”

  He offered to write down a name and give it to me and I could torture him until I was satisfied he’d never reveal it. This was supposed to prove he wouldn’t sell me out later if something went wrong in our business arrangement. The man was obviously insane, which meant he was pretty much like everyone else with whom I associated.

  “Before we go any further,” I said, “what shall I call you?”

  “Vic … tor.”

  “There’s a flaw in your plan,” I said. “Torture is only one way to make you talk. What if someone kidnaps your wife or kids or your girlfriend? What if t
hey threaten to blow up the day care center where your sister works? Trust me, Victor. It’s hard to let your loved ones die a horrific death when you could save them by simply revealing a name.”

  There was a long pause. Then he said, “I’m … wheelchair … bound. There … is no … one … in … my life. When … you … meet me … you will … under … stand.”

  I thought about that for a moment and decided I already understood. “I’d rather limit our relationship to the telephone for now,” I said. “I actually do believe you wouldn’t talk. Something tells me you’d welcome torture and maybe even death.”

  “You are … very … percep … tive … Mr. … Creed. So … when … can you … start?”

  I wasn’t worried about speaking freely on my cell phone. The few people in the world capable of breaching my cell security already knew what I did for a living. “I have three clients,” I said. “If you want me, you’ll be fourth in line. Each contract is fifty thousand dollars, plus expenses, wired in advance.”

  “Can … I … de … cide how … the hits … go … down?”

  “Within reason,” I said.

  Victor gave me the details for the first target. Then he hit me with a stipulation I’d never encountered: he wanted to speak to the victim minutes before the execution. I told him that would require kidnapping, which would place a major burden on me. It meant a second person, more time, and more exposure. I refused all the way up to the point where Victor offered to double my fee.

  Victor proceeded to tell me exactly what he wanted me to do, and why. And as he spoke in that creepy, metallic voice, I realized that even though I thought I’d stared in the face of the deepest, darkest evil the world could possibly produce, I had never encountered anyone as vile. I came away thinking I’d have to scrape the bowels of hell with a fine-tooth comb to uncover a plan as morbidly evil as his.

  I told him I’d do it.

  4

  “Before you meet them, you need to see them,” Kathleen Gray said as she signed me in. “They do this for the children, so they won’t see you cry or recoil in horror,” she added.

  The William and Randolph Hearst Burn Center at New York-Presbyterian/Weill Cornell is the largest and busiest burn center in the country, entrusted with treating more than a thousand children each year. I got that and a bunch of other information from a brochure in the lobby while waiting for Ken Chapman’s ex to show up. I had called her at work and explained I needed to meet her in person before I could consider approving her house loan.

  “Bullshit!” she had said. “You’re the guy from Homeland Security who called me yesterday. Don’t bother denying it; I recognize your voice.”

  Nevertheless, Kathleen agreed to meet me after work at the burn center, where she volunteered two hours of her time every Tuesday. She escorted me through the lobby door and down a long hallway.

  “What made you decide to work with burn victims?” I said.

  “After my divorce, all I wanted was to get out of Charleston and make new friends, so I moved here and got a job. But I didn’t know anyone. Then one day my company offered tickets for a charity event, and I took one just to have someplace to go, thinking maybe I’d meet someone.”

  “And?”

  “And here you are!” She burst out laughing. “Well, you’re a liar, of course, but at least you’re good-looking. And everything about you screams ‘single guy!’”

  We turned left and headed down another hallway. Several corridors ran off that one, and I tried to keep up with the route we’d taken in case I had to navigate back on my own. Doctors and nurses came and went, walking with purpose. A short, pudgy nurse in a light blue lab coat winked at Kathleen and made kissing sounds as she passed. We walked a few steps, and I cocked my head and said, “I bet there’s a story there!”

  “Oh, hush, you!” she said.

  I raised my eyebrows, and she started giggling.

  “Don’t even,” she said.

  I didn’t. “What makes you think I’m single?” I asked.

  She laughed. “Oh, please!”

  We passed a window. The sky was darkening outside, and the gusting wind made a light buzzing sound as it attacked the weaker portions of the window frame. Kathleen had entered the hospital wearing a heavy cloth overcoat that she now removed and hung on a wooden peg by the outer ward doors. She pushed a silver circle on the wall and the doors flew open.

  “I didn’t meet anyone special at the fundraiser,” she said, “but I was touched by the video presentation. That night, I read the brochure from cover to cover and got hooked.”

  “So you just showed up and they put you to work?”

  “Yeah, pretty much. Until that point, my life had been in a downward spiral. I’d felt sorry for myself, victimized, after the whole Ken thing. Then I met the burn kids and I was humbled by their optimism and their passion to survive.”

  “Sounds like you found a home.”

  She smiled. “Yes, that’s it exactly. I made an instant decision that changed my life.”

  “And now you come here every Tuesday?”

  “Yup. Every Tuesday after work for two hours.”

  Kathleen picked up a clipboard. While she studied it, I took the opportunity to study her face and figure. I had come here expecting to find a timid, broken woman, but Kathleen’s divorce obviously agreed with her. She was attractive, with large eyes and honey colored hair that stopped an inch above her shoulders. I took her for a natural blond because she wore her hair parted in the middle and I couldn’t detect any dark roots. High on her forehead, just beneath her hairline, I could make out a light dusting of freckles. She had a few more freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose as well. Her body was gym tight, and she had a friendly, easygoing manner that revealed nothing of the difficult past I had witnessed in the police photos. Her voice was unique. You could get caught up in it, especially when she spoke about her volunteer work. We were about to enter the burn center treatment area, and despite my concerns about what might lie beyond the next set of doors, I found myself hanging on her every word.

  “The pain these children live with daily is something you and I will never encounter or comprehend,” she said. “And the toddlers, oh my God, you can’t help but burst into tears the first time you see them. It’s best to see them through a one-way mirror before you meet them because the worst thing you can do is let them see your pity. It erodes their self-confidence and reinforces the fear that they’re monsters, unfit for society.”

  I admired her character, but the last thing I felt like doing was looking at severely burned children. Kathleen sensed it and said, “If you want to talk to me about Ken, you’ll have to participate.”

  “Why is it so important to you that I do this?” I said.

  “Because even though you look like a thug, who’s to say you won’t turn out to be the person who winds up making a difference?”

  “Let’s assume I’m not that person. Then what?”

  “If you really are with Homeland Security, I’m guessing you spend most of your time distrusting people. I can think of worse things than exposing you to some wonderful children who deserve compassion, friendship, and encouragement.”

  “Friendship?” I said.

  Kathleen smiled. “Could happen,” she said. “And if it does, it will change two lives: theirs and yours.”

  “But …”

  Just keep an open mind,” she said.

  Kathleen escorted me through the double doors and into a viewing room that put me in mind of the ones in police stations—only instead of overlooking an interrogation room, the burn center viewing room overlooked a play area. She asked if I was ready. I took a deep breath and nodded, and she pulled the curtain open.

  There were a half-dozen kids in the play area. We watched them interact with toys and each other for several minutes, and at some point, I turned and caught her staring at me. I don’t know what Kathleen Gray saw in my face that evening, but whatever it was, it seemed to delight her.


  “Why, Donovan,” she said. “You’re a natural!”

  I assumed she was referring to my casual reaction to the kids’ severe disfigurement. Of course, Kathleen had no way of knowing that my profession had a lot to do with it, not to mention my close friendship with Augustus Quinn, a man whose face was singularly horrific and far more frightening than anything going on in the playroom.

  Kathleen took me by the wrist and said, “All righty then. Let’s meet them.”

  I have a soft spot for children and rarely find it necessary to kill them. That being said, in general I’m uncomfortable around kids and expect I come across rather stiff and imposing.

  These kids were different. They were happy to see me. Or maybe they were just happy to see anyone new. They giggled more than I would have expected, and they seemed fascinated by my face, especially the angry scar that runs from the side of my cheek to the middle of my neck. All six of them traced it with their fingers. They were truly amazing, all of them.

  But of course, there was one in particular.

  Addie was six years old. She was covered in bandages and glossy material the color of lemon rind. She smelled not of Jolly Ranchers or bubblegum but soured hydrocolloid.

  I knew what I was seeing.

  According to something I’d read in the waiting room, fourth-degree burns affect the tissues beneath the deepest layers of skin, including muscles, tendons, and bones. This, then, was Addie.

  Except for the eyes. Her eyes were unharmed, huge and expressive.

  Though relatives were told that Addie and her twin sister Maddie would not survive the initial treatment, amazingly they did. They were ordinary kids who should have been running around in a yard somewhere, playing chase or tag, but sometimes life deals you a shit hand. Around noon the second day, while Addie stabilized, Maddie took a turn for the worse. She alternately faltered and rallied all afternoon as a team of heroes worked on her, refusing to let her die. Kathleen wasn’t there but she heard about it, what a special, brave child Maddie was.

  In the end, her fragile body failed her. A nurse said it was the first time she’d seen a particular doctor cry, and when he began bawling, it caused the rest of the team to lose it. They were all touched and personally affected by the fight in these little twins, these tiny angels. They said they’d never seen anyone quite like them and didn’t expect to ever again.