Big Three-Thriller Bundle Box Collection

by Gordon Kessler

  By the time we were within a hundred feet of them, the doctor had slipped inside, and my head pain subsided quickly. Chief Dailey watched the door close then gawked at us as he took three steps back with his hand on his sidearm.

  “Don’t come any closer,” he called out. “I have nothing against you, boy. I wish you no harm.” He released the grip of his pistol and raised his hands to chest level. “Just stay back. Take my advice. Get out of here.”

  Sunny and I slowed to a jog, and she stayed behind me.

  “Chief,” I begged, “what’s going on? We need your help.”

  My words had no effect. Dailey shuffled backward a couple more steps. He turned so hastily he stumbled but caught himself and ran into the woods behind the building.

  We stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and stared at the back door of the cop shop.

  The sun had disappeared now. Only its pink glow remained, framing the wooded tree line behind the city building. A couple of seconds passed before common sense and a police cruiser two blocks away told me we had to keep moving.

  “I don’t understand what’s going on,” I said, “but I don’t think the police are going to help.”

  “Doctor either. Some friends.”

  The patrol car sped toward us with its red light flashing and its siren blaring.

  Sunny tugged on my hand, leading me on a trot to the alley, and I was pretty sure of where she was taking me.

  Five blocks ahead was the Mother Lode Inn. With these blue-suited morons chasing me, a sniper after my ass, and now the police somehow involved, I couldn’t go home or to my store. I hoped the sheet-rocked walls of Sunny’s motel room would contain my deadly problem, keep me from killing anyone else, and be a haven until we could sort things out.

  Chapter 15

  We found a commotion of some sort at every street we came to on the way to Sunny’s motel room. People scurried everywhere. As I’d done earlier in the day, we hid behind trash dumpsters and refrigerator boxes along the alley. We watched as police and emergency vehicles, and dark blue Ford vans, roared past.

  A block from the motel, we stepped into what appeared to be an empty street. However, as we did, an elderly Oriental couple came out of a bakery half a block away and spotted us as they hurried to a little red Volkswagen. The man pointed in our direction, barked something to the old woman with him and then shoved her into the passenger seat. He scampered around the car like Grandpa McCoy on speed, slipped inside, and they raced away.

  * * *

  When Dailey came through the back door into the police station, Xiang greeted him with a backhand across the nose. Dailey fell back against the closed door, a shocked look on his face.

  Twenty feet down the hall, a police sergeant gaped from his desk.

  “You, fool!” Xiang said to Dailey. “You had him. You could have coaxed him to you and caught him then and there.”

  “But Doctor, I had no protection,” Dailey said, pushing slowly from the door. “And when I saw you hurry inside, I thought . . . I didn’t know what to do.”

  Xiang got in his face. “Do not give me shit, Dailey. He had no reason to harm you. If I had confronted him, and he had become unmanageable, I would have had to kill him.” Dailey backed up to the door as Xiang continued. “Are you becoming soft? Are you becoming an ingrate? After all I have done for you, all I have given you, and you defy me like this?”

  Xiang came at Dailey again. The tall thin man shoved the much heavier police chief against the door once more. Again, he backhanded him. Slapped him a third time. And again. Inflicting true physical pain was so much more satisfying to Xiang than the psychic kind. If he wished, he could look into Dailey’s eyes, and do as he wanted — lead him around like a pup, make the police chief feel incredible pain that wasn’t really there. He could make him feel as though his body were completely engulfed in flames — burning, Dailey would even have the sensation of smelling his own charring flesh. Or he could make him feel as though he had just been ran over by a pavement roller. He could give him any sensation he desired, and it would seem so real to Dailey, that if it were sustained long enough, his body would forfeit life, he would have a heart attack and die. But this would not be real pain, and there was no substitute for that kind of pleasure — more physical and stimulating — the kind that got Xiang’s own knuckles bloody.

  Dailey’s lip bled. He held one eye closed. “Doctor,” he said, “I’m sorry. I won’t fail you again.”

  “Of course you will not,” Xiang said. He reached to the hefty man’s side and pulled out the chief’s revolver without protest. “You will not fail me again because I am going to kill you now.” He pushed the barrel of the .357 against Dailey’s cheek.

  Xiang glanced up at the quiet desk sergeant. The man’s eyes couldn’t have been wider.

  “Please,” the chief pled, his voice quavering. “Give me one more chance. We’ll get him, I promise. No more misses. Please, Doctor.”

  Xiang pulled back the gun’s hammer. Only light pressure would put a bullet through Dailey’s cheekbone, into his brain and splash the chief’s grey matter all over the wall behind him. Instead, in a seamless move, Xiang safely eased the hammer into place while bringing the gun back and giving it a broad, hard sweep against the chief’s temple.

  Blood splattered from Dailey’s mouth and nose as he collapsed to his hands and knees, and the doctor glared down on him.

  Xiang said, “A citizen called in while you were cowering in the woods. Said they were headed farther east. The last thing on this end of town is the motel.”

  Dailey spat blood onto the floor. He lifted his head toward the astonished policeman twenty feet away. “Sergeant Qian,” he yelled out. “Call the security people at the facility. Tell ‘em to bring their helicopters and have ‘em run blocker at the perimeter fence in sectors Alpha, Bravo and Charlie. Then, get yourself and four men in SWAT gear down to the motel. Use infrared and night vision. Search the woods and every house down there, including the motel. Now!”

  The doctor grinned. “That is more like it.” He looked toward Qian. “Wear the copper-lined helmets, Sergeant Qian. They are the only protection against this man.”

  Xiang gritted his teeth as he looked over Chief Dailey. Someone was trying to rescue Subject 374. All could be lost if the subject got away — but how could he escape? Xiang did not like the idea of killing his latest and most promising assassin, but Wu had an even later version of implant. Surely Wu would be able to duplicate what Subject 374 had. And now that the device seemed more successful than Xiang had ever dreamed, he could produce them — stamp them out — implant them in a handful of warriors and easily manipulate the invisible strings of world power.

  As Sergeant Qian left, Xiang called to him, “Try to restrain them first. But do not hesitate to kill either or both of them to prevent their escape.”

  * * *

  At the motel, Sunny ushered me up an outside stairway and along an exposed balcony. We stopped at room two twenty-three and stood outside the door, while she dug into an inside pocket of her sweat pants.

  “Watch,” she said. “Make sure we weren’t followed.”

  I scanned the street along the front of the motel waiting for her to pull out the key and open the door. No cars, nobody walking, the town suddenly seemed empty. The air grew chillier, a cold breeze creeping down the side of Mt. Rainy, its icy fingers slowing wrapping around the town. I looked out as the community’s few remaining streetlights and home lights glowed to life. Darkness laid the mask of serenity softly upon Gold Rush, and a numbness unlike any I could remember surged through my mind and body.

  When I turned back to Sunny, I saw she held a small toolset instead of the key. From it, she pulled out two thin metal instruments barely larger than toothpicks.

  “What the hell?” I said.

  “Couldn’t pay for a room. Left home without my American Express.”

  She jimmied the lock and opened the door.

  Within a minute, we were sitting a
t the foot of one of two queen-size beds, Sunny holding a warm, damp washcloth to the back of my head while I leaned forward. I didn’t know if it was the tension or the bee sting on the back of my skull, but my brain throbbed. I glanced around the room as much as I could with my new, old friend making sure I didn’t move my head. There was no luggage in sight. No clothes hanging up. Maybe she’d put her bags in the bathroom — or left them at home with her American Express card.

  “You’re lucky there isn’t a bullet hole there, too,” she said, peeking under the cloth.

  “Yeah, today’s been my lucky day.”

  “At least we got away,” she said, placing it back gently. “I think we lost ‘em.”

  “We can only hope. We should call someone.”

  “Who? You got more friends? If they’re like the last two, you’d better forget it.”

  I couldn’t think of an answer. Whom could I trust besides my wife Michelle? Getting her involved would surely put her in danger. Right now, it was only Sunny. However, our meeting was a little too convenient, staged, maybe.

  “If no one saw us come up here,” she said, “we should be safe for a while, until we can sort things out. When it’s good and dark, we can slip away to my car.”

  “I need to call Michelle, make sure she’s okay. At least try to. They should have fixed our phone by now.”

  “Michelle?”

  “My wife.”

  “Yeah, right. You can do that in a minute. I’m sure she’s fine. Let’s tend to the bee sting, first.”

  I nodded and asked, “So, what have you been up to all of these years?” Maybe there was a clue to this chaos hidden behind her lovely façade. “I mean, you married? Have any kids? What do you do?”

  Sunny pulled the washcloth back and dabbed a couple of times at my injury.

  It burned, and I flinched.

  “You need to keep your head just like that for a bit longer,” she said. “Hold this on it lightly.” She let go of the wet rag and leaned back on both hands. “Yeah, I was married. He simply up and left me two years ago.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, but her response was only a sort of thoughtful pause.

  Out of the corners of my eyes, I could see her face crack with a broad smile, and the tone of her voice elevated. “I have a beautiful daughter, she’s seven. She wants to be an Olympic dancer, like I was going to be. I made the Olympic team in high school, but I broke my ankle and didn’t go. I’m betting she’ll make it, though. She’s stubborn and determined like her daddy.” After another pause, she lost the giddiness in her voice and took a serious tone. “Ever since I got out of college, I’ve been in sales mostly, even though I have an MS in physics. But then, my husband Dan and I started a business five years ago called McMaster Nonlethal Solutions, in Sacramento. Have you heard of it?”

  I thought for a moment, but the company didn’t sound familiar. I shrugged lightly as I found a hint of memory about the name McMaster. I couldn’t place it until I added Sunny’s husband’s first name to it. Dan McMaster. The name hit me hard like a slap upside the head. Daniel McMaster was the name on the file folder in my dream — the name of the person I was seemingly being compared to — and the guy the two GI Joes had questioned me about. I held back saying anything.

  Sunny went on, “Not surprising you haven’t heard of it. We design nonlethal weapons for military and law enforcement. I’ve been able to use my physics degree some, helping develop a few of the devices. But now I’m VP and marketing manager again — in the area on business visiting all of the local police and sheriff’s offices.”

  She hadn’t indicated she knew Chief Dailey — of course maybe she hadn’t been to see him yet before we met in the park. I frowned, not finding much credence in what she said.

  She must have noticed. “I could never catch your local yokel at his office.”

  “Nonlethal weapons for a quiet little village like Gold Rush?” I said with a half-smile.

  She smirked at my small attempt at levity. “Hey, even small town cops run into situations they can’t get out of without force. If they have a choice, they can use nonlethal instead of deadly force, and they can save lives — sometimes innocent ones.”

  “That’s great. But you don’t look like a marketing manager or a physicist.” I realized I might be insulting her feminine lib side, so I added, “I mean, no briefcase or dark-gray suitcases, and you’re too pretty to be someone’s manager.”

  I glanced at her to see if I was in trouble. She straightened up and folded her arms.

  “It was meant as a compliment. You’re very attractive. And you seem very smart. You could probably be anything you wanted.”

  She kept it simple. “Thanks.”

  Neither of us said anything for a moment, but before long I felt her fingers searching through the hair on the back of my neck.

  “This thing . . . ,” she said and lightly touched the tender lump on the base of my skull. “ . . . it isn’t a mere bee sting.”

  “Ouch, easy. It’s a bump.”

  “It’s huge,” she said. “Have you seen it?”

  “Yeah, like I have eyes in the back of my head. Don’t mess with it. The doctor said I shouldn’t disturb it.”

  “What happened?”

  “It’s from a fall I had last Friday. I had a concussion. It’ll just take some time for it to go away. He said it could cause complications if I messed with it.”

  “That’s preposterous.”

  “Maybe, but that’s what the doc said. It’s a little tender because of that bee sting this morning right before my world turned to shit.”

  Sunny sprang up, went to the far side of the other bed and pulled a backpack out from underneath it.

  “A backpack toting sales rep?” I asked.

  She said nothing as she opened it and pawed inside. I wondered what this woman really was — what she was actually after. Did she have anything to do with the people who chased me — or with the deaths? Would she try to kill me next?

  I squirmed on the edge of the bed. “What’s wrong, lose your burglar tools?”

  She pulled something like a ball out of the pack and threw it at me. I dropped the washcloth and caught the fruit projectile in the center of my chest — an apple. Next thing I knew, a banana came sailing by, and I grabbed it, too.

  “Is this some of your nonlethal weaponry? Are you trying to fruit me into submission?”

  “Eat,” she said, as she started on her own red delicious. “We’ve had quite a workout. You need energy food — sugar, potassium for your muscles.”

  I’d missed lunch and felt weak. I bit into the apple. It was sweet, good. I’d never been through an apple so fast. I peeled the banana. “You know, a thick rib-eye steak would be nice,” I said. “Medium rare. You don’t have a Black Angus in there, do you?”

  She didn’t answer my foolishness but returned with a small first aid kit and laid it on the bed between us. In a few seconds, she had cotton swabs, a small bottle of alcohol, a penknife and some tweezers placed on another washcloth by the kit as if she were preparing for an operation.

  “Now, what are you going to do? Look, it’s only swollen up like that because of the bee sting. Leave it alone.”

  “I don’t think it’s a bee sting or a bump from hitting your head. There’s something under your skin. It’s manmade.”

  “You’re the one who hit the bee, right?” I said but she seemed preoccupied. I reached back and felt the lump gingerly. “You’re a marketing manager, not a surgeon.”

  “Move your fingers and eat your banana,” she ordered. “Think about it, Robert. All these crazy things happening. And I’m telling you, somebody’s put something under your skin.”

  This was crazy. But I needed to trust someone. She was the only one who hadn’t run or pulled a gun on me . . . yet.

  With its peel, I recovered the banana. I laid it on the bed and gripped my knees. “Easy.”

  “Don’t you worry. It’s for your own good,” she said, her voice as co
ol as the wet swab she wiped across my skin. The strong scent of rubbing alcohol struck my nose and burned my sinuses.

  “I’m tellin’ ya, the doctor said there could be complications if that thing was messed with.”

  “You mean the doctor who ran inside when he saw you?”

  “Yeah, so? That doesn’t mean he was wrong.”

  “Superman, the way things are going,” she said as I felt the sting of the tiny knife slicing the tissue around the bump, “you ain’t gonna see sunrise, let alone have time to worry about any other complications.”

  Her term of endearment for me was a surprise.

  I grimaced with pain but didn’t verbally protest, gritting my teeth instead. The alcohol burn was the worst, and I was able to get past it by considering what she was saying.

  She had a good point. Besides, for some strange reason, I found myself trusting everything she was doing was for me. Something deep within, and not Harvey this time, told me to have faith in her judgment. Again, I recalled the TP note that said, trust . . . solely in your emotions — for within them is the only real truth. Somehow this woman, with a soothing touch and pleasing scent, was familiar to me. I had a definite feeling we were, or at least had been, very close.

  “Why’d you call me that?”

  “What?”

  “Superman. Harvey calls me that.”

  “It’s the nickname I gave you back in college.” She giggled. “You used to call me Wonder Woman. So, who’s Harvey?”

  I frowned. “A voice in my head.”

  “You have a voice in your head named Harvey?” She shook her head slowly. “You really are in trouble.”

  I shrugged.

  “What about you, Robert? Any kids?”

  I stared out, searching for some sort of emotion, deep feelings, for what I was about to tell her. Oddly, I couldn’t find any. “That’s the other part of the hurricane. You know, when I said I had this feeling like I was in the eye of a storm, and I was just waiting for it to hit me again? There was an accident last winter.” As I spoke, something like a home movie played in my mind. A beautiful Oriental woman, Michelle, with short hair, pregnant and cooking at the stove; her laughing as she hit me with a pillow; her changing a baby’s diapers; her with longer hair, carrying a bag of groceries into the house and calling out, “I’m home, honey,” a young boy smiling big as he caught a ball I’d just thrown; my arm pushing the boy in a swing; my arm helping the boy ride a bicycle with training wheels.