Big Three-Thriller Bundle Box Collection

by Gordon Kessler

  Calvin Tibbs sprang up from his metal kitchen chair and reached behind the door. He pulled out a loaded twelve-gage shotgun and raised it to his shoulder. The gun wavered dangerously in the old man’s hands, his aim no longer steady. His wife looked down the opposite end of the barrel, moon eyed.

  The shotgun discharged with a deafening explosion as Tibbs blasted the next attacker, along with the end of the old woman’s broom.

  “Shit fire!” Jane Tibbs said, backing away from the doorway. “Look out, the fool’s got a gun. I swear, I don’t know which one of you’s gonna kill me first.”

  “Hot damn, just like back on Iwo Jima,” Calvin Tibbs said, cocking the gun.

  Another blast and another one of the gray creatures turned into a red mass of bloody fur as it splattered up against the doorway.

  Tibbs tried to chamber another shell. This time it jammed outside the chamber.

  “Damn! We’re in deep shit now,” he said, working the pump frantically to dislodge the shell.

  Jane Tibbs responded with a war whoop as she grabbed a large meat cleaver hanging on the wall and the third attacker charged.

  The old woman fell to her knees, bringing the big blade down hard with a merciless glare on her face. Her aim proved deadly, and the cleaver hit the linoleum floor with a loud juicy swack. At the end of the meat ax, a gray mop of fur lay, split mostly in two.

  The old man shuffled over, and they both craned their necks to see if there were any more of the varmints. “I think we might oughta give in and call the exter-me-nader, Ma.”

  *-*-*

  Thirty minutes passed. The anxiety was building, and Parker paced the floor. The lightheaded feeling returned, and the fever burned even more intensely than before. Finally, Gladys came out of Alvarez’s office and said, cowering, “Mr. Alvarez will see you now.”

  “Have a seat, Parker,” Alvarez said without looking up, shuffling papers at his desk.

  “Good morning, Mr. Alvarez,” Parker said respectfully and held out his hand. Without acknowledging the friendly gesture, Alvarez continued to study the papers. Parker saw there would be no handshake on this morning and sat down.

  Alvarez was a short, stocky Mexican-American. He looked much younger than his fifty years and had thick, black hair and a very smooth dark complexion.

  After a full minute, Alvarez looked up over his reading glasses.

  “So what are you doing about this problem we have?” he asked, leaning back in his chair and holding onto opposite ends of a pencil with both hands.

  “You mean, the dog attacks?” Parker asked innocently.

  “Chit yes, man, what the hell else would I be talking about?”

  Parker knew it had been a dumb question. “Well, Mr. Alvarez, we think we’ve found what started the problem. The rabies tests came back positive on the first two dogs, and we think it was caused by a bad batch of vaccine. We’re notifying the animal owners involved and quarantining their dogs and the animal clinic that gave the shots. I’ve got all of our officers working double shifts, and the police have been assisting in the search for the animal that’s still at large.”

  “Animal. That’s right, it’s just an animal—a dog. It doesn’t matter how big the thing is, it’s still just a damn dog. Look, Tony, the city manager has come down hard on me about this. The city wants this thing caught, and it’s all up to chew. If chew can’t do the job, then I’ll have to get someone else.”

  Parker could do nothing but frown.

  “Tony, I’ve got to do it this way. If chew can’t put an end to this chit within twenty-four hours, I’m going to have to can chew. If I don’t, then I’ll get canned for not doin’ my job. It’s gotten political with this damn panic that idiot TV reporter started. Then, there’s this letter-tothe-editor bullchit. What the hell did chew think chew were doing? To top it off, chew cause a traffic accident. Chew’re just damn lucky no one was injured.”

  The fever glowed red hot in Parker’s body. His neck stiffened. He didn’t feel well, and Alvarez annoyed his condition, just like that damned little-assed poodle. There was a limit to how much he could take. He tried to swallow but couldn’t.

  “Sir, I’ll do what I can. But I don’t know what more can be done,” Parker pleaded.

  “Let me ask chew this,” he said and watched the pencil as he tapped it on the top of his desk. “What about putting a reward on the thing? Say, five thousand dollars, dead or alive.”

  “I’d say that wouldn’t be wise.”

  Alvarez looked up and smiled. “Too late. It’s running on the front page of tomorrow morning’s paper and the press releases are going out to TV and radio first thing in the morning.”

  “Then, I’d say, that’s not only unwise, but incredibly stupid. Do you realize you’re creating a much more dangerous situation? This city is already in a panic. You’re giving all the kooks a reason to get out their guns.”

  “Well, then, chew better do something quick, Parker—before the word gets out in the morning. And any more attacks, any more screw ups, and chew’re out of here.” Alvarez broke his pencil in half, then signaled with his thumb. “Chew can start by making a search radius out as far as this thing could have gotten by now. Then, catch the sonof-a-bitch. ‘Cause if chew don’t, I’ll be on chew, like stenk on chit,” he said, standing at his chair, pointing the broken pencil at Parker.

  The pressure loomed heavy on Parker’s back and head like a ten-ton slab of concrete. He needed a steady paycheck for the next four months to help pay his tuition, or he might never get his vet’s degree. But, the strange adrenaline rush he had felt with Hill at the blind man’s house shot through him again. His heart pounded like it was trying to escape from his chest. This miniature poodle of a man made him very angry.

  Parker jumped up from his chair. He leaned against Alvarez’s desk with his face inches from the pointing, broken pencil.

  “I said, I’m doing all that I can!” he said in a loud, unusually hoarse voice. “What do you think this is, just another panty-waisted, pit-bull attack? We’re not looking for some Scooby-fuckin’-Doo. You want to know what we’re really up against here?”

  Alvarez’s eyebrows raised and lips parted as Parker continued.

  “First of all, this dog is bigger than any ever recorded. Because of that, I really don’t know what she’s capable of, but I can guess. She can run fast, probably as much as forty miles an hour, and for several minutes at a time. If she’s in good health, she can run like that off and on for twenty-four hours a day, taking only brief stops to rest and feed—maybe attack and feed. She’s been loose for three and a half days. That means she could be well into Oklahoma by now, or Nebraska, or Missouri, or even Colorado! She’s strong, and she’s powerful. Her jaws are like steel bear traps that can crush a man’s head with ease, or pop it right off. She stands three and a half feet at the shoulders, while on all fours. On her hind legs, she could touch this ceiling with her ears. And she weighs nearly twice as much as your scrawny little ass!”

  Parker grabbed the broken end of the pencil, and Alvarez stepped back, eyes bugging out, still holding the other end.

  “The most terrifying thing about her is she’s smart. She knows when to hide and when to attack. An unarmed man doesn’t stand a chance against her. He’d be dead within a split second. We can only hope she screws up and is spotted by a cop before she kills again. If we’re lucky, her rabies has killed her, and she’s lying dead under someone’s porch or in a ditch out in the county somewhere. Like I said, I’m doing all I can, and right now I’m wasting time in your office. I’m going back to work, now, and if chew don’t like it, chew can chove it!”

  Parker stormed from the office, leaving Alvarez standing open-mouthed. Parker realized what he was up against before, but somehow, coming from his own mouth made it sink in deeper. He was tracking a monster.

  CHAPTER 30

  Tricia Carpenter woke in her grandparents’ queen-sized bed. Although it was nearly noon, she’d only had a few hours’ sleep. T
he screams and yells had stopped long ago, but sporadic howls and growls lasted all night. She finally fell asleep a little before daybreak, completely drained.

  She saw it was daylight and hoped the terrible day before had been a nightmare. If it had been only a nightmare, then where were her grandparents, and why had she slept in their room? Where was Raggedy Ann? She never went anyplace without Raggedy Ann, especially not to bed.

  She got up slowly and looked about the room. The bedroom door was still closed. Grammy and Grandy never closed it when they slept there. They had left it open just in case she needed them in the middle of the night. Many nights, she had run in to tell them of a nightmare she’d had, usually about her parents fighting. In her dreams, her parents always told her the fighting was her fault and neither of them wanted or loved her anymore. It had been so frightening: them saying they didn’t love or want her. She wondered if it was true. After all, her father couldn’t have her in Kansas City because he was always traveling. Her mother couldn’t have her until she got settled in Denver. They both just gave excuses.

  Maybe this all had been a nightmare. Maybe she had dreamed it and run into her grandparents’ bedroom and climbed into bed with them and now they sat downstairs drinking coffee and everything was all right.

  Tricia noticed her foot was tender, but didn’t look at it as she stepped over to the open second-story window of the bedroom and looked out at the street below. She saw no movement, but that wasn’t unusual for Sand Creek. No bodies in the street, no dead people. But maybe the dogs had carried them off.

  Hunger pangs caused her stomach to ache. It was time for her traditional bowl of Fruit Loops cereal. Fruit Loops was her favorite— not so much for the taste or the nutritional value, but more for the colors, all the bright colors.

  She limped to the door and stopped and stared at the doorknob. She remembered the nightmare. She remembered running through the doorway and slamming it behind her after she had slipped away from Dawg. She remembered after she slammed the door Dawg and the other mutt hit it hard and scratched at it feverishly.

  She reached slowly and turned the doorknob. It made a metallic click, and the seldom-used hinges complained in an eerie whine as she pulled the door open.

  The first thing she saw was Dawg. It startled her, but she didn’t close the door.

  Dawg looked over his shoulder from the top of the stairs where he lay. He didn’t bark. He hadn’t even growled.

  Maybe it all had been a dream.

  He looked at her and blinked his eyes.

  Tricia’s mouth formed a small o and she blinked back. She looked him over from the doorway, twelve feet away. His gray and yellow coat was matted with dark red stains. His muzzle was the same. But still, he just looked back as his old self would.

  Then, Tricia saw her doll between Dawg’s front paws. It also was covered with blood, with a large amount of Dawg’s drool darkening its cloth body.

  Dawg had been chewing on Raggedy Ann.

  Tricia’s emotions quickly changed from apprehension to anger. It hadn’t been a nightmare, she knew now. It made her angry. She wanted to hurt the dog, to swat him like Grammy did when she caught him digging in the garden. She wanted to whack him again with the bat.

  Tricia stepped out of the door.

  Dawg’s lip curled. The other mutt appeared behind him on the stairs. They growled. Dawg stood quickly.

  Tricia hopped back to the doorway but tripped over her own feet and sat down hard on her bottom. It jarred her teeth. All fall down! She leaned back against the plywood panel in the old door and felt it with her hands as she tried to stand. It was rough and torn up as if someone had taken a chisel to it, making deep grooves and splinters. The dogs did this the night before when they scratched and scratched, trying to get in to get her, to eat her, like they had Grammy and Grandy.

  Tears streamed from Tricia’s eyes.

  The dogs attacked.

  *-*-*

  A neighbor had found Mrs. Nightingale’s chewed carcass. She had several injuries, but the gashes in her throat were the significant ones.

  The day had become cloudy when Tony Parker received word. He arrived in time to see her body brought out on a gurney. He felt responsible. Jack Simpson walked to Parker when he saw him get out of the truck.

  “I was just here an hour and a half ago, Jack,” Parker said, somewhat recovered from whatever took a hold of him in Alvarez’s office. “She was fine then. I can still see her face, vibrant and alive. She told me good-bye and ran back to answer the phone.”

  “She was found with the phone still in her hand. By the bite marks on her ankles and the injury on her head, it looks like the dogs tripped her up, and she fell into a lamp table, knocking herself out.

  That allowed the dogs to finish her off. An old couple down the street caught the dogs sneaking in their house and blew them away.”

  Parker looked down at his feet and shivered. “I could have saved her. She could still be alive. It’s my fault. I should have brought the dogs in, myself.”

  “Come on, ol’ buddy,” Simpson said sympathetically, “you didn’t know what you were dealing with. You can’t blame yourself.”

  “After all that’s happened and I didn’t know what we were dealing with?” Parker shook his head. “Did you find anything else?”

  “You mean like initials or a Bible passage?” Simpson asked.

  Parker didn’t answer, still looking at his feet.

  “No, not this time. This mess is damned crazy, Tony. What in hell is going on?”

  Parker shook his head again.

  “Ah, shit. It’s Haskins,” Simpson said as the TV Two news truck arrived.

  “You’d better keep him away from me, Jack, or you’ll have another body on your hands,” Parker said through his teeth.

  Haskins stopped and spoke to what was probably a neighbor. Parker saw the woman point at him, and then Haskins turned to Parker.

  Simpson blocked Haskins’ advance with his arm as he came running with microphone in hand.

  “Yet another death! Tell me, as animal control director, what are you doing about this plague of rabies and the human slaughter that is taking place?” Haskins asked tenaciously into his microphone. The cameraman’s bright lights shone from behind giving the announcer a sort of surreal, almost angelic look.

  “No comment,” Parker said back, taking quick steps toward his Jimmy.

  “According to neighbors, you had been here moments before the victim was killed, possibly right outside as she was being torn to pieces by rabid dogs.”

  “No comment,” Parker said, nearing the truck.

  Haskins pushed on with Simpson backing up, still holding his arm out to keep Haskins at bay.

  “What is it you’re doing, Tony Parker, Animal Control Director, to protect the good citizens of Wichita from these raging beasts, running rampant in our very streets?”

  “No comment!”

  Haskins turned back to the camera. “There you have it, people of Wichita. Three citizens and two police officers lay dead, throats torn open by ferocious, mad dogs, freely running the city streets. And our very own head dogcatcher says, ‘No comment.’”

  Parker roared off in his truck. He radioed Tommy Chin and told him to pick up what was left of the poodles.

  Roary Rapids had to be found immediately. There could be no more attacks.

  CHAPTER 31

  Harold Burke had delivered mail to the folks at Sand Creek six days a week for the previous eighteen years. Aside from a two weeks’ vacation now and then, and a few holidays, he could count the number of days he’d missed on one hand. He’d delivered even when the old back had flared up and when he’d caught a case of the creeping crud. He’d been through two Dodge station wagons and a Studebaker during that time. Now he was in the middle of wearing out a sixty-seven Plymouth GTX. It was cherry when he’d bought it six years ago. Besides putting over a hundred and twenty thousand extra miles on the engine, it was in the same cherry shape it was in
when he bought it.

  He crammed a Sears catalogue, an issue of Playboy, and an overdue electric bill into the mailbox out in front of Jake Lawrence’s house and eased up to Eldon and Pearl Bumfield’s when he heard screams, little girl screams. Burke stopped short of the mailbox and listened. It didn’t sound like little-kid, bet-you-can’t-get-me, play-type screams. Maybe it was the Bumfields’ granddaughter that had been staying with them this summer. Oh, what was her name—Tricia, that was it. She must be in trouble, hurt or something. Maybe she’d fallen from the swing set in the backyard or cut herself with a butcher knife in the kitchen while she tried to make herself a sandwich for lunch.

  Burke stepped out of his car and took two more steps into the yard, listening to find out exactly where the screams were coming from. They came again. This time, he heard barking, too. Angry barking and growls. The commotion came from inside the Bumfields’ house.

  Harold Burke angled his thin body to the direction of the front door and sprinted. He leaped the porch, flung open the screen and charged in.

  “Pearl! Eldon!” he yelled frantically, not yet looking down. “Are you folks all right?”

  Burke’s leather-soled black work shoes made contact with Pearl Bumfield’s drying gore, and he slipped, limbs flying, falling hard onto his shoulder and into the chest of her devastated corpse. It made a cracking, crunching, rotten-watermelon smashing noise as he landed. Several seconds passed before he understood what mess he lay in, gawking at the blood on his hands and arms and the rent carcass.

  He sprang to his hands and knees and looked down at the carnage he’d landed in with disgust. Bile pumped into his mouth, but he held it back. He looked away and saw the body in the living room, guessing it to be Eldon Bumfield. He couldn’t be sure. It was as recognizable as a Thanksgiving turkey on the Friday after.

  The screams came again. They came from upstairs. This was no time to puke his guts into Pearl Bumfield’s mostly bare-skull exposed face. Whatever atrocity happened to the Bumfields was happening right now to a little girl upstairs.