by JA Konrath
Bill could hear his heart, pounding with a combination of fear and stimulants. He contemplated returning to his car and leaving; other than traffic violations, Bill had never broken the law in his life. Breaking and entering was a felony, right?
The police won’t help you. You need more evidence. Just do it.
He took off his jacket, put it up against the pane, and hit it with the heel of his hand.
The glass cracked with the sound of a gunshot, and the falling pieces seemed to tinkle forever. He locked his knees and refused to run away. Searching for the latch to unlock the window reminded Bill of the first time he assisted in surgery as an intern, trying to find the appendix while all eyes were on him.
A dog barked, a few backyards away. Bill probed the inside of the window frame for a full minute before locating the lock. Two seconds after that, it was up and he was in.
It was the kitchen. The only light was streaming in from the opening he'd crawled through. A steady hum from the refrigerator seemed to exaggerate the silence. He stepped clear of the broken glass and made his way into the hallway.
The drapes had all been drawn, and seeing was tough. He took a minute to let his eyes adjust, and then began poking around, careful not to touch anything.
There was a stereo, hundreds of CDs organized in a rack. An entertainment center hugged the wall, flanked by two large floor plants that were going brown. The sofa and loveseat were black leather. He searched a bookshelf and found some current bestsellers, magazines, some medical texts.
Nothing in the hall closet, nothing in the bathroom. Bill located the basement stairs and flipped on the light. He descended, slowly.
The odor hit him halfway down. It was a smell he knew well, and one he always hated. Musky, putrid, clinical, final.
At the bottom of the stairs, Bill went right. A hand was over his face, and when that no longer worked, he covered his nose with his shirt bottom. The basement was unfurnished, the walls and floor bare concrete. In one corner was a washer, dryer, and an oversized utility sink. Some cardboard boxes were stacked in the center. The furnace and water heater were side by side, next to a large PVC pipe that stretched down from the ceiling and into the sump hole.
To the left of all that, a concrete wall with a door in the middle of it. Much as he hated to, he made it his destination.
When Bill pushed the door open the smell enveloped him like a dry heat. He had to take several steps back or risk vomiting.
Bill decided to examine the rest of the house first, allowing time for the death room to air out. He went up to the second floor and located the bedroom. The dresser and closet contained nothing extraordinary. The bed was unmade. A nightstand drawer revealed a remote control for the TV, some Kleenex, and a Robin Cook paperback.
Bill headed across the upstairs hall and found a study. The drawers had been pulled out of the desk, their contents strewn over the carpet. A large file cabinet had been similarly disturbed, files and papers littering the floor. Bill didn't think poking through it would provide any answers. It was doubtful that whoever made the mess left anything important.
On a hunch, Bill went back to the bedroom. Many doctors took their work to sleep with them. He looked under the bed, behind the nightstand, and eventually found the file wedged between the nightstand and the bed. The tab on the manila folder read N-SOM. It was thick, held closed by a large rubber band. Bill tucked it under his arm and went into the adjoining bathroom.
In the closet was an old tube of Ben Gay. He dabbed some on his upper lip. It burned, but it was a small price to pay to smell menthol rather than rot. Then he pushed aside his trepidation and walked back down to the basement.
The door was waiting for him. Bill approached without enthusiasm, knowing what was in there, knowing he had to look anyway. When he pushed it open, the stench surrounded him like a tropical breeze. He pulled the cord on a hanging bulb.
The tarpaulin-covered bundle in the middle of the floor was the source of the odor, and the shape left no doubt as to its contents. Bill still had to be sure, and holding his breath he pulled back the canvas.
Mike Bitner's eyes were open, two white marbles stuck in a pink, bloated face. Bill looked lower, saw the exit wound in the chest. The amount of dried blood staining the floor around him left no doubt that this was where he died. They'd videotaped Bitner's murder in his own basement.
Bill left the room and tried to think it through. He had to get the authorities to see this, without them knowing he'd been here. Maybe he could leave an anonymous tip. Pretend he was a neighbor, complain about a smell coming from the house. Or even say he heard shots, or saw someone breaking in.
Once the police found the body, they'd have to protect him.
Bill walked over to the stairs, planning the call in his head. The creak took him by surprise.
It had come from the floor above. Bill stopped, and heard it again, louder this time.
There was someone upstairs.
Chapter 9
“That window could have got broken weeks ago.”
Franco came up next to Carlos, the broken glass crunching underfoot. Carlos shook his head and scratched at his graying goatee. He had a dark face, all sharp angles, and it suited his personality.
“Floor's dry. It rained two, three days ago. This is recent.”
Franco shrugged, but he took out his weapon just the same, a laughably large Coonan 357 Magnum with a six inch barrel. Carlos's Colt Model 38 was already in hand, a reliable gun that never jammed like Franco's cannon.
“So you want to search the place?”
Carlos thought it over. If someone had been here, that someone might be coming back with heat. He didn't want to waste any time.
“No. Let's do it and get the hell out of here. Just be careful.”
Franco laughed at the warning, a girlish giggle that didn't fit with such a large, muscular body. He bore the badges of pro boxing; scar tissue around the eyes and a grossly misshapen cauliflower ear. Nothing frightened Franco. But Carlos had been in the business a lot longer, and you could get dead even if you weren't scared.
“Jesus, you smell that stink?”
Carlos didn't. He'd come prepared. The suit he wore was throw away, and he'd cut a menthol cigarette filter in half and shoved a piece high up in each nostril. The method was so old hat that his speech was barely affected.
Franco led the way into the basement. Carlos stayed a few steps behind, taking in everything. When he saw the light on in the corner room an alarm went off in his mind. Carlos was sure he'd turned it off.
The larger man walked in without a care, grumbling about the smell. Carlos stood at the bottom of the stairs and scanned his surroundings. There were some boxes. A large sink. A water heater. Several places a person could hide. He thumbed back the hammer on his gun and walked towards the boxes.
“I thought we wasn't searching.”
“Real quick. I wanna be sure.”
“Hurry up. I stay down here long, I'll deliver a street pizza.”
There was no one behind the boxes, or in the big sink. That left the water heater. He approached it and brought his gun around in a firm, two handed grip.
No one was there.
“You sure are cautious, for an older guy.”
“That's how I got to be an older guy.”
Carlos walked over to the room to help with the body removal. He didn't hear the small expulsion of breath come from beneath the cover of the sump pit.
Bill knew he wouldn't have been able to do anything if they'd found him. He was on his knees in the sinkhole, curled up. It was a tight fit, made even tighter by the discharge pipe pressing into his back. He'd unplugged the sump pump before climbing in, and since it wasn't running and his head was bent forward he was practically drinking the foul water. If the killers had lifted the lid, it would have like shooting a big fish in a small barrel.
When he'd heard them upstairs, Bill knew his hiding places were limited. He put the N-Som file in the dryer and w
as relieved beyond words that hole was large enough to hold him. Once the contorting was complete, the hard part was keeping still. As the footsteps drew nearer, Bill was sure he'd be discovered. He'd closed his eyes and begun to pray.
But the moment had passed, and it looked like he might actually live through this.
He sighed, too loudly for comfort. There was an odor, but it wasn't as bad as the death smell in the other room. Bill kept his left eye on the light coming in through the crack in the lid opening. He wanted to change position, but didn't dare for fear of making noise.
They'd come to get the body. He only had to stay there for a few more minutes, then he could get out.
Then something brushed his hand.
He flinched. It was a reflex. His head bumped against the sump lid, knocking it slightly askew.
“Did you hear that?”
Carlos cocked an ear to the side, listening.
“I didn't hear shit. Lift your end up higher.”
Carlos pulled on his end of the tarp, drawing it closer to his chest. The effort made him groan.
“Don't have a heart attack, Grandpa. I don't wanna have to lug two stiffs outta here.”
Franco laughed at his own joke. Carlos frowned. He shouldn't have been here with Franco, doing this. He was a specialist. The murder, that was worthy of him. This was grunt work. He stared at Franco, the cauliflower ear stuck to the side of his head like a fat pink pretzel. No wonder he didn't hear anything. Gino liked to joke that Franco's ears were for decoration only.
“I heard a noise in the corner.”
“You checked it already.”
Carlos nodded. There was nothing there. But he was sure he'd heard something.
“Maybe it's, whaddaycallit, senile dementia.”
Franco laughed again. Carlos pursed his lips, making a silent wish that someday Gino put a hit out on Franco. Carlos would take that contract for free.
“Lift higher. You're not doing your part.”
Carlos strained with his end. He hadn't been paying attention, and Franco had gotten to the stairs first. When the tarp began to leak, it leaked on Carlos.
Whatever had brushed against Bill was bony and covered in fur. He'd stirred it climbing in, and felt it move up along his body and breach the surface next to his cheek.
Dead rat, bloated and rotten.
Bill closed his eyes. The gorge was building in his throat, and he knew he had to do something or he'd throw up.
Carefully, he moved a hand up to the rat and took it between his fingers. He dragged it back under water, where the smell couldn't get to him.
The air was still funky, but the nausea had passed. He stared up at the lid. The crack was wider now, the cover several inches off center.
He braced for the worst, sure that they'd heard him and were on their way over. They'd pull up the lid and point their guns. The same guns that killed Mike Bitner. Bill would die curled up in foul water, clutching a dead rat, hearing the laughter of petty thugs.
But the seconds slouched by without incident. Bill heard nothing. His neck had begun to cramp, and his legs had long ago lost circulation. Slowly, gently, he straightened up his head and pushed back the cover, peering over the edge of the hole.
The basement was empty.
He climbed out, cold and shaking.
Carlos slammed the car trunk closed and wiped his gooey hands on his pants. Franco giggled.
“You look worse than the stiff.”
It was true. On the way up the stairs, the tarp came open and spilled all over. Carlos was a mess.
“I gotta go clean up.”
“No shit. Ain't getting in my car like that.”
Franco leaned against the hood and lit a smoke while Carlos made his way back into the house.
Bill was in the kitchen when he heard the back door open. There was nowhere to go except the bathroom. He was there in two steps, throwing the N-Som folder in the cabinet under the sink. Then he climbed into the tub and closed the shower curtain.
The shower curtain was transparent.
Carlos immediately noticed the water on the floor. He pulled out his gun and peered down the basement stairs. Dirty wet footsteps, leading up through the kitchen, and into the bathroom.
“Dr. May, right?”
Bill was pressed into the corner of the shower, shivering. The man before him was thin and angular. His hair and beard were dirty gray, and he had eyes the color of flint. He raised the gun to Bill's head.
“Answer me.”
“I'm William May.”
The man nodded. “Thought you looked familiar. We've got our
eye on you, you know.”
The man winked at him. Then he fired the gun.
Bill crumpled into a ball. The shot was so loud it hurt. He hit his
head on the bathtub edge and covered his face.
But other than his new lump, there was no wound. He hadn't been shot.
He peeked through his fingers and saw the man at the sink, washing his hands with some soap.
“Consider that a warning, Dr. May. I only miss on purpose. You see the body?”
Bill didn't trust his voice to answer.
“Did you see the body, or do I have to drag you outside and shove you in the trunk for a closer look?”
“I saw it.”
“Then you saw what happens when good doctors don't follow orders.”
The man rubbed a rag on his face. Another man, much larger, appeared in the doorway with a gun. He aimed it at Bill, but the older man pushed his arm down.
“We don't need to kill him, Franco. He'll cooperate.”
The big man squinted at Bill.
“That so?”
Bill nodded. His heart was a lump in his throat.
“Dr. May knows what's best for him. He knows he can't go to the cops, because we own the cops. That's why he didn't get any help with the video tape. He also knows he can't run, because we can follow him anywhere in the world. The only way he's gonna live through this, is he if approves the drug.”
Franco leaned over the bathtub and grabbed Bill by the shirt. He pulled him close with an ease that was terrifying.
“That right, Doc? You gonna approve our drug?”
Bill had never felt so helpless.
“Yes.”
Franco giggled like a woman. He gave Bill an approving slap on the cheek. It was like being hit with a board, and the stars came out.
“Good boy. Are you a medical doctor?”
Bill nodded.
Franco's face became solemn. He released Bill and unzipped his fly. Bill blanched. Revulsion and shame mixed in with his terror. He decided he had to do something, even if they killed him. When the big man dropped his pants, Bill made a fist and got ready to punch.
“What does that look like to you?”
Franco had hiked his boxer shorts over his upper thigh, and was pointing to a small brown mole.
“What?”
“Is that cancer?”
“It's... it's just a mole.”
“You sure? I don't remember having it.”
The smaller man laughed. “You don't remember how to count to ten without using your fingers.”
“Shut up, Carlos. I want the doc's opinion.”
Bill cleared his throat. “Has it gotten bigger? Or has it ever bled?”
“No.”
“Then it's just a mole. Sarcoma has an irregular shape, and it grows and bleeds.”
Franco seemed relieved. He pulled up his pants and walked out of the bathroom.
Carlos tossed Bill the rag and winked again.
“Be seeing you, Dr. May.”
Then he was gone.
Bill sat back in the tub. He wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. He did neither.
After a few minutes, he got up and put his hands on the bathroom sink. His stomach was dancing Mambo number five, and he leaned over the toilet. Nothing came.
Bill washed up without looking at himself in the mirror. Then he sat on M
ike Bitner's sofa in the living room, the N-Som folder clutched to his chest, and didn't move for almost half an hour.
The drive back to his place was a blur. Bill felt nothing, and yet he felt everything. He knew that he had almost died, and an experience like that was life-changing. He also knew that he'd done nothing to prevent it, and his cowardice made him rethink his self image.
They hadn't killed him, but they'd changed him forever. The important question; was he changed for the better, or for the worse?
When Bill pulled into his garage, he didn't notice the man hiding in the shadows.
The man with the scalpel.
Chapter 10
The blinking light indicated the call was a transfer. Special Agent Smith set down his coffee, hit the button, and picked up the receiver.
The caller was Dr. William May of the FDA.
He laid it all out for Smith, starting with the murder of Dr. Nikos.
Smith listened closely, asking the questions he was trained to ask, taking notes when appropriate. The caller went on to talk about the video tape, the lack of police involvement, and finally went into the harrowing tale of discovering the body and being caught by the two killers.
When Dr. May was finally finished, Smith reassured him that the Bureau would get some men on the case. He advised him stay in his home, avoid strangers, and try to always have friends around him.
Smith gave Dr. May his personal cell phone number, and said he should call if anything else happened. He also told him that the FBI would keep him under protective surveillance, but they were going to stay out of sight so as not to arouse suspicion. It seemed to calm Dr. May a bit, and he thanked Smith before getting off the phone.
Smith reviewed the notes, to make sure he had the story straight in his mind. When he was satisfied that he did, he picked up the phone and called Albert Rothchilde.
Chapter 11
When he saw himself, he was someone else.
The gun was in his hand. He knew what he was going to do, and he was powerless to stop it.
His wife was asleep. He woke her up, let her look down the barrel and have one last scream before he shot her in the forehead.
The sound woke up the kids. Bobby, the youngest, began crying in his bed across the hall. His older sister Sally came into the room, eyes wide.