Kill Switch

by S W Vaughn

  Kill Switch

  S.W. Vaughn

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  Copyright © 2019 by S.W. Vaughn

  All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously.

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  More by This Author

  Psychological thrillers

  WHAT SHE FORGOT

  THE LIFE SHE STOLE

  Crime thrillers

  TERMINAL CONSENT

  P.I. Jude Wyland series

  DEADLY MEASURES – a prequel novella

  THE BLACK DIRECTIVE

  House Phoenix series (crime thrillers)

  BREAKING ANGEL | Book 1

  DEVIL RISING | Book 2

  TEMPTING JENNER | Book 3

  SHADOWS FALLING | Book 4

  WICKED ORIGINS | Stories & Novellas

  Get a free book when you join my mailing list for new releases and periodic book sales. Simply tap or click the link, sign up, and you’ll receive a free copy of BREAKING ANGEL, book 1 in the House Phoenix crime thriller series, in your preferred format.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Epilogue

  Also by S.W. Vaughn

  Prologue

  Landstaff Junction, Vermont

  Twenty years ago

  Just one more catalogue sale and she’d qualify for a brand-new bike, not to mention being the highest fundraiser in her sixth-grade class. That was the only reason Preston had ridden so far outside town — about two miles up the TR-28 toward the mountains, where the woods lined both sides of the road and the houses were few and far between.

  Ahead on the left was a small, neat white house with old-fashioned red shutters and a bright red front door, set back from the road and surrounded by a perfect blanket of emerald grass on all sides. She didn’t see a car in the driveway, but she hoped someone would be home. It was a Saturday, after all. Today she’d actually been invited to the community pool with Meg Halstead and her family later this afternoon, and for once she didn’t even have to bring her little sister along.

  But she wanted to get this done first. She was so close.

  There was another house way out here, too, just beyond the white one on the opposite side of the road. She didn’t really want to go to that one. It was a huge place, faded and peeling and ominous with a saggy porch and junk cluttering the ragged yard. Just looking at it made her shiver.

  But she’d try there, if she had to.

  Only if no one answered at the non-creepy house.

  Preston biked to a stop at the end of the white house’s driveway, dropped her kickstand, and left her older, slightly rusty ten-speed on the shoulder as she walked to the red door and pushed the doorbell. She heard the chime echo inside, a pleasant and clear ding-dong that for some reason made her think of the old black-and-white television shows her parents watched sometimes on Nick at Nite.

  Unfortunately, Ward and June Cleaver failed to open the door and greet her with a friendly smile, even after she rang the bell twice more.

  She waited a few minutes and then tried one last time, even though she knew no one was home. There were no sounds from inside the house, other than the cheerily empty chime of the doorbell. But she gave it a little longer than usual anyway, because she really didn’t want to try the big, creepy house.

  It looked like that would be her next stop, though.

  Just one more, she told herself firmly as she plodded back up the driveway, glancing over her shoulder every few steps in case someone at the nice house decided to be home, after all. If she went to this last house, the scary one, she’d feel like she earned a few hours at the pool with her friends, even if whoever lived there decided not to buy anything. She could always try the ladies at church again tomorrow, and maybe she’d still get that sale she needed before school on Monday.

  Maybe she should just do that anyway, and not go to the creepy house at all.

  She’d come this far, though, and she didn’t want to chicken out — she could just hear her older brother teasing her about it, if he somehow found out what happened. Besides, just because the house looked a little scary, didn’t mean the people who lived in it were. Maybe it was a nice grandmother-type lady who hardly got any visitors, and she’d be happy to offer a glass of lemonade on a warm late-spring day and sit on that run-down porch to look at the catalog.

  With a house that big, the little old lady in Preston’s mind could maybe even afford to buy one of everything. You never know until you try. That was one of her mother’s favorite sayings, and she clung to it like a talisman as her imagination conjured up all sorts of non-creepy people who might live in that house. Sweet old lady. Young couple with a baby. Big, happy family with eight kids, like her friend Bobby. A bunch of nuns.

  Feeling a little more confident, she reached her bike and started to nudge the kickstand.

  That was when she heard the first scream.

  She gasped, and the fine hairs on the back of her neck went prickly. The sound had come from the woods across the road, next to the creepy house. Maybe it was a coyote — she remembered her dad saying once that coyotes could sometimes sound like people screaming. But he’d also said that happened at night, and right now it was the middle of the day.

  Then the sound came again, and she knew it wasn’t a coyote. It was a girl, and she was terrified and in pain.

  Preston stopped thinking. She let go of the bike, and it clattered to the ground unnoticed as she gave a cursory glance to the left and right, and then darted across the road and into the woods. The sound hadn’t seemed far away, and the trees were far enough apart that she should be able to see the street from inside the woods and get back to it.

  As her running feet crashed and crunched across the forest floor, another sound drifted from the direction of the screams. This one was weak and muffled, a desperate sob that might have been trying to be words.

  She caught a flash of movement beyond a clump of trees and slowed as she approached, for the first time really considering what she was doing. Anything that would make a girl scream like that had to be dangerous. Maybe there was a ravine back there, and the girl had fallen and broken her legs. Or she’d stepped in a bear trap. Or she was being attacked by a bear, or
a coyote, or a mountain lion.

  Or by the big, strong, horror-movie man that Preston just knew lived in that creepy house, no matter how many sweet little old ladies or big happy families she tried to envision.

  What did she think she was going to do about any of that?

  She froze, indecision preventing her from either going forward to help the girl or running back toward the road. Ahead of her, past the clump of trees, someone grunted hard. The sound startled her so badly that she clapped a hand over her mouth to keep from screaming herself.

  There was a noise, a dragging and crackling shush that stopped and started several times. Now she wanted to run, to turn around and bolt back through the woods and pretend she’d never heard anyone out here. But she couldn’t move.

  And then a figure edged into view. Someone in a hooded jacket, slightly bent over, their back to her. The person was hauling something heavy along the ground, something that flopped and twitched awkwardly and sent Preston’s heart into her throat.

  A girl. Only a few years older than her, blonde hair like her own. Jeans and a bright green windbreaker jacket. Blood soaking the t-shirt beneath, where the handle of a knife protruded from her chest.

  She wasn’t screaming anymore.

  But Preston was about to.

  Before her tongue could betray her and bring the psycho’s attention crashing down on her, she forced herself to move, giving her locked body a tremendous mental push until she snapped out of her stance with a tiny intake of breath and spun around in the direction of the road.

  She ran. Every part of her wanted to look back, convinced the hooded figure was right behind her, ready to slice her with the bloody knife he’d probably pulled out of the girl to chase her with, but she didn’t look. She ran until she couldn’t breathe, and then she ran some more.

  It felt like forever, but at last she caught glimpses of dull gray pavement and open space. When she cleared the trees, she pelted across the road without looking for traffic. Her mother would’ve killed her for that, she thought in a wild bid to grab some sense of normalcy.

  She didn’t dare to look behind her until she’d grabbed her bike and mounted it, one foot already on the pedal.

  There was nothing on the other side of the street. No hooded man, no dead girl, nothing but trees.

  He hadn’t followed her.

  The next few hours were a blur. Preston rode her bike all the way back into town, pedaling as fast as she could until she reached the police station. She managed to gasp out what she’d seen to the lady at the front desk, and then officers in uniforms came out and brought her to a nice room and sat her on a comfy chair and wrapped a blanket around her even though she wasn’t cold and brought her a glass of water that she didn’t drink and a package of Chips Ahoy cookies that she didn’t eat. They asked for her name and phone number, they asked where she’d been and when it happened and who it happened to, and she told them everything but it was really nothing except screams and dragging and hooded killers and all that blood. And then her dad came and he made them stop asking questions and she was in the car and then she was home.

  Home and safe.

  But the girl wasn’t safe.

  The girl was dead.

  Preston blacked out on the couch and dreamed of coyotes.

  Later when she woke up, after her parents had fussed over her and she’d managed to eat a few bites of dinner, and her brother and sister pelted her with questions until their mother made them go to their rooms, her father took her into the living room and sat her down. She couldn’t quite read the look on his face, but it was troubled and sad and something else that might have been fear, even though her father wasn’t afraid of anything.

  He settled on the couch next to her, let out a sigh, and laced his hands together tightly. “Preston, honey,” he began, and then trailed off and shook his head, his lips pressed in a line.

  She stared at him. “What happened?” she whispered. “Did they find the girl? If they got there fast, maybe they could save her …”

  But she knew that wasn’t possible. The girl was dead.

  Her father winced, reached over and took her hand — his big and warm, hers small and cold. She was so cold now, out there in the woods. “Sweetheart, they didn’t find anything out there,” he said slowly. “Nothing at all.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, there was nothing,” he said. “No girl, no signs of a struggle. No blood.”

  “There was gallons of it!” she blurted in a breaking voice. “They must have looked in the wrong place. He was dragging her. Maybe he hid her somewhere, or he could have buried her. They have to find her!”

  “Preston …” Her father looked away and winced again. “The people in that house are not good people,” he finally said. “I know you think that you saw someone hurting a girl, but—”

  “That is what I saw.” Her shock slowly gave way to the beginnings of anger. “You don’t believe me?”

  “Of course I do, but … honey, things aren’t always what they seem.” He gave her an awkward look, and the back of his neck flushed. “Some people do things … well, for pleasure, that other people would not enjoy. Things that men and women do in the bedroom. Sometimes, those things can look like a struggle.”

  Preston glowered at him. “I know what sex is, Dad. There was a knife, and blood.” She emphasized the words as if she was the adult, and he was the stubborn child refusing to listen. “That’s not how sex works.”

  Her father cleared his throat, and his expression firmed. “Now, look, honey. I know you’ve been through a difficult experience, but the police searched the area, and there is nothing out there,” he said with a little more force. “And I want you to stay away from that house, understand? I don’t ever want you to go out there again.” He gave her a one-armed hug, and added, “We just want to make sure you’re safe, sweetie.”

  “I am safe.” She jerked away from him and shot to her feet, suddenly angrier than she’d ever been in her young life. “But she’s not. She’s dead. I saw him kill her! Did they even look for her out there, or are they too scared of that stupid house? Why doesn’t anyone believe me?”

  Hot tears flooded her eyes and spilled down her face. Before her father’s open mouth could form any more words, she turned and ran from the room, up the stairs, and into her bedroom, where she slammed the door and threw herself on the bed.

  It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. If she was older, stronger — if she hadn’t been out there alone — she would have tried to help. Even if it was too late. She would’ve stopped that man any way she could, and she’d have gotten that girl out of the woods. Her family would want her back. Somebody, somewhere, had to love her.

  But now she’d never come back. Now she would stay out there, alone. Dead and alone.

  Preston sobbed herself to sleep, hearing the pain and terror of the girl’s screams over and over again as they echoed in her soul.

  New Heights Juvenile Detention Center — Bronx, NY

  Seventeen years ago

  I was out in the yard after another pathetic excuse for dinner, checking around to see if anyone had gotten a care package from home so I could muscle in on them and get something decent to eat, when I spotted the new guy over by the outside fence. And I couldn’t look away.

  There must’ve been a hell of an expression on my face, because Jake Paladino came over and elbowed me, even though I’d punched him for less in the past. “Did you see a ghost, or what?” he wheedled, and then flinched away, clearly remembering too late that I didn’t appreciate being jabbed.

  I let it go this time, though. I was too fascinated to be angry.

  “Over there,” I told him with a bare nod toward the fence.

  Jake followed my gesture, and the perfect bug-eyed jaw-drop that formed on his face almost made me laugh. He looked like a real-life cartoon. Wile E. Coyote, watching the rocket he’d just fired at the Road Runner bounce off a cliff and head back at him full speed.


  “You got a brother I don’t know about?” Jake finally blurted.

  I shook my head, my gaze not leaving the newcomer. Apparently it was true what they said: everybody has a lookalike somewhere in the world. And here was mine. The new guy was a mirror, a twin, a clone of me.

  My doppelganger.

  Jake shook off the shock first and started bouncing on the balls of his feet, a lunatic grin on his unfortunate face. The scrawny, twitchy kid who’d followed me around like a stray dog since the day I got locked up in this crap place claimed to be the son of a mobster, and swore he was going to introduce me to his father and bring me into the “family business” when we got out of here. But I only had a week left on my sentence, and Jake had six months on his. Plus, he was probably lying about his mob connections.

  I was considering it, though. If nothing better came along before Jake got out of here, maybe I’d give the little weasel a chance to make good on his claims. Considering my talents, the mob might be a decent fit for my future.

  Not that any of us in New Heights could have a real future. They called it a youth center, but it was really just a prison with brighter colors — and everybody knew that ex-cons were screwed. Even if they were just kids when they went in.

  Nobody who came out of this place would ever be considered a child again.