What Doesn't Kill You (A Suspense Collection)

by Tim Kizer

  “I thought you’d be happy. Making choices is hard. I just took care of it for you.”

  “I’m not going to cheat on you anymore, I promise.”

  “Now I believe you. And… Good news, baby.” Heather rubbed Daniel’s thigh gently a few times. “It’s over. We’re going home.” She kissed him on the lips. “Are you happy we’re going home?”

  “Yes, I’m very happy.” Daniel shut his eyes. A tear rolled down his cheek.

  “Everything will be all right, baby.” Heather kissed him again. “We’ll get through it together. We’re going to work this out, baby. I love you more than anything else in the world. I wouldn’t be so jealous if I didn’t love you with all my heart, would I?”

  “I love you, too, baby,” Daniel muttered. “Let’s go home. I want to go home.”

  “Okay.” Heather kissed Daniel on the cheek and wrapped her arms around him. “Everything will be all right.”

  15.

  “So did you enjoy your stay here?” Loretta asked when she and Heather got in the GMC Yukon. “Are you satisfied with the way things went?”

  “Yes, I am.” Heather nodded confidently. “Everything went great. Dan has paid for what he did and will never forget this.”

  “Well, you got your point across, that’s for sure.”

  “I think so, too.”

  “For once, the girl won, right?”

  Heather nodded. “The girl won.”

  “By the way, I checked the files you gave us,” Loretta said. “I’m very happy with results. I’m glad you didn’t try to screw us.”

  “What would have happened if I had?”

  “It doesn’t matter. You’ve done a great job, Heather. Did you make sure your father didn’t find out that you’d copied the files?”

  “Yes. I was very careful. And I hope your guys won’t tell anyone how they got them.”

  “Our guys are professionals; they’ll keep their mouths shut. I suppose I don’t have to remind you that you’ll need to keep silent, too. Under no circumstances can you talk about the files and who you gave them to.”

  “I understand that. By the way, can I ask you what’s so special about those files?”

  “I wish I knew.” Loretta smiled. “But I assure you we’re not the bad guys.”

  “I wonder why you didn’t simply bribe my dad.”

  Loretta smiled. “Maybe next time we’ll do just that.”

  It occurred to Heather that Loretta’s friends might have actually tried bribing her father, but this honest idiot hadn’t gone for it. Well, whatever.

  Heather laid her head on the headrest and closed her eyes. A worrisome thought had just come to her: what if Daniel decided to kill himself because of all the stress and emotional pain he had gone through in the cabin? What if one day, a few weeks from now, she called his cellphone and his mom answered and told her that Daniel had hanged himself in his room?

  She got chills when she imagined being the one who discovered Daniel hanging from the noose.

  Such an outcome was certainly in the realm of possibility. After all, people committed suicide for more stupid reasons; one might find it hard to believe that someone would take their own lives because they had gotten tired of being bullied at school or feared upsetting their parents with bad grades, but that had actually happened and would keep happening in the future.

  In the end, Heather came to the conclusion that this little adventure at the cabin was unlikely to cause Daniel to kill himself. You had to be sensitive to punch your own ticket over hurt feelings and shame, and Daniel was definitely far from being a delicate pantywaist.

  She could be wrong about him, though. Daniel might turn out to be an emotional weakling. So, it looked like she would have to wait and see.

  Heather let out a heavy sigh. She realized that, from now on, every time Daniel took too long to pick up the phone or reply to her texts, she’d be haunted by the image of his dead body dangling from a rope.

  Why did life have to be so damn complicated?

  END

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  The Mindbender

  Description

  FBI Agent Peter Anderson arrives at a secret military installation to help break Max Pollack, a Navy SEAL believed to have mind control powers.

  Consumed by paranoia, having no one to trust, Peter has trouble telling which thoughts are his own and which have been planted by the mindbender.

  All bets are off when the Secretary of Defense is suspected to have been influenced by Pollack.

  With the world's fate in the balance, Peter and his colleagues discover that they may be on the wrong side.

  Tensions are high as they struggle to figure out whether or not they are being manipulated by the mindbender.

  Who are Max Pollack's masters and what are their plans?

  The frightening thing is, even the mindbender might not know the answers.

  Chapter 1

  1.

  “Has your husband contacted you in the past eleven days?”

  “No, he hasn’t,” Linda Pollack replied in a flat voice. “I’ve already told this to your guys. Twice.” Max Pollack’s wife was wearing no makeup, perhaps because Walsh’s men had confiscated her makeup kit.

  Peter Anderson focused his eyes on Linda Pollack’s background data sheet, hoping it would give him some ideas for interview questions.

  “You must have spoken to CID agents. I’m from the FBI.”

  “Can you tell me where my husband is? Why was he arrested?” Linda pressed her lips together tightly.

  “This information is classified.”

  “Why are you holding me? What have I done? Is it classified, too?”

  Walsh, who was sitting next to Peter, touched his elbow and said, “I think that’s enough. I’ll let Sergeant Kelton wrap this up.” He rose to his feet and gestured Peter to follow him. As soon as they stepped out into the hallway, Sergeant Kelton, who was waiting outside the door, entered the interrogation room.

  “I need to show you something.” The colonel led Peter into the viewing room, where he pressed the intercom button on the control console and said, “Sergeant, I’m giving you the green light. You know what to do.”

  The sergeant looked at the one-way observation window and nodded slightly.

  “You see this?” Kelton waved the pistol before Linda’s eyes. “I’ve just been authorized to take you out.”

  A few moments later, seeing that his words had not sunk into the woman’s brain, the sergeant added, “I’m going to shoot you, Mrs. Pollack. Right here, right now.”

  Linda froze, her unblinking eyes fixed on the gun, her face blank with shock. Finally, she managed to utter, “What are you talking about?”

  “I’ve been ordered to execute you because your husband refuses to cooperate with the U.S. government.” Kelton aimed his pistol at Linda’s chest and fired four shots, sending the woman and her chair tumbling backward to the floor.

  It took Peter ten seconds to fully realize that he had just witnessed an execution of an innocent American citizen.

  “Shit has gotten serious, hasn’t it, Mister Anderson?” Walsh raised his chin.

  Kelton put the gun on the table, squatted next to Linda’s body, and checked the pulse in the woman’s neck. The puddle of blood underneath the body was slowly expanding. Peter felt his hair stand up on his arms.

  “What was that?” Peter turned his face to Walsh.

  Kelton straightened himself up and made an ‘okay’ sign with his right hand. Walsh pressed the button on the console and said, “Good job, Sergeant.”

  “Can you explain to me what happened back ther
e?” Peter asked. “Is Linda Pollack dead?”

  Walsh nodded. “She sure is. Sergeant Kelton has shot four holes in her chest. It would have been a miracle if she’d survived that. I bet he hit the heart.”

  Peter had a feeling that the colonel was fighting an urge to smile as he replied.

  “Are you telling me that you murdered an innocent civilian just because Pollack doesn’t want to talk to you?”

  “That’s an accurate way to describe it, Peter. We warned Max that his loved ones will be hurt if he doesn’t answer our questions, and now we’re simply keeping our word, that’s all. A threat is worthless if you don’t act on it, Peter.” Walsh set his elbows on the desk and laced his hands together. “You can’t make an omelet without breaking eggs, remember? You said you agreed with that.”

  “That’s insane.”

  “No, Peter, that’s not insane at all.” Walsh clapped Peter on the arm. “Let’s discuss it in my office.”

  2.

  Two hours and thirty minutes earlier

  “Welcome to the Fairmont Training Center, Mister Anderson,” Walsh said as he rose from his high-back leather chair.

  Looking back weeks later, Peter asked himself if Colonel Walsh had been a gentler, more trusting man before crossing paths with Max Pollack. Being in charge of detaining a prisoner who had the power of mind control and who could probably read thoughts as well would make a paranoid out of most people. The stress, the pressure must be enormous. Perhaps that was what had happened to the colonel; he had let the job eat him up.

  A better question, though, was, ‘Has he, Peter Anderson, become more paranoid than Colonel Walsh?’ Peter would know the answer, but he’d wish he didn’t.

  “Pleasure to meet you, Colonel,” Peter replied, offering his hand. “I’m glad to be here.”

  Colonel Steven Walsh, a tall clean-shaven man in his mid-forties with a touch of grey hair at the temples, had an honest face and a firm handshake. As soon as they were done greeting each other, Peter caught himself thinking that the colonel must be a trustworthy guy and a good boss to work for. The funny thing was that even after the brutal and insidious warm-up session with Max Pollack’s wife, which was less than three hours away, his first impression of Steven Walsh would still have a chance of being true.

  “How was your trip from Washington?” Walsh asked. “Everything went fine?”

  “Uneventful. Just the way I like it.”

  “We are called a training center, but let me tell you right away that training is not our focus. You, as an FBI man, can certainly imagine why we would have a misleading name.”

  Just like most secret military installations, the Fairmont Training Center was as unassuming and underwhelming as could be. Located in the middle of the woods, it consisted of two dozen or so grey-walled box-like elongated buildings, none of which was taller than two stories. On the way from the entrance gate to the headquarters, Peter had wondered if the buildings were connected with each other by a series of underground tunnels. By the way, there might be more than just tunnels down there. Given its highly confidential and enigmatic status—Peter had had to go through a screening interview and a lie-detector test before being allowed to come here—Fairmont could be one of those places whose surface structures were just the tip of the iceberg. Four fifteen-foot chain-link fences, each topped by barbed wire, surrounded the base, providing protection from snoopy visitors. Peter was sure that the entire forest around the installation was sprinkled with motion sensors, cameras, and whatever else they were using to secure perimeters these days.

  “Before we proceed, I’d like to take care of a little formality,” Walsh said. “I do it with everybody, so please don’t be offended. Can I see your FBI credentials?”

  Peter reached into his inner jacket pocket. “Sure.” He held out his badge. Walsh took the badge and scrutinized it for half a minute.

  “Thank you, Mister Anderson.” The colonel returned the badge to Peter.

  “Your people at the gate checkpoint have already looked at it, by the way.”

  “I know. I’m a bit OCD when it comes to security.” Walsh rubbed his hands together.

  “Are you expecting uninvited guests?”

  “You can never be too careful, my friend.”

  “I wouldn’t put so much trust in a piece of paper. What if I forged my credentials?”

  “I like your attitude. But I’m not relying on your badge alone. Your boss sent me your photo yesterday, so I’m quite confident that you are what you say you are.”

  Was it going to be one of those exasperating assignments where your every move had to be approved by the head honcho? Peter hoped it wasn’t.

  The colonel’s office had a much more austere interior than Peter had expected based on what he had seen in movies. There were no paintings or mahogany panels on the walls, Walsh’s desk had an unembellished design and was as pedestrian as one you would find in the principal’s office of a high school on a tight budget, the chairs and the sofa matched the desk in its plainness, and the carpeting appeared as if it had been laid two decades ago (which it probably had).

  One of the biggest surprises was the fact that Walsh’s office had no windows. Perhaps the colonel didn’t know that the top dog was supposed to have an office with a view. Or maybe he hated sunlight. It was also possible that the colonel didn’t trust iron bars to keep burglars out. What could Walsh be protecting from thieves here? Diamonds? Gold bullion? His baseball card collection?

  Peter wondered if the colonel’s safe was bolted to the floor.

  The room had the vibe of a deep underground bunker. The steady, sterile light of fluorescent tubes helped make the commander’s office a place where you could end up working late into the night without noticing it.

  A perfect setup for a workaholic.

  The colonel was twirling a Marlboro cigarette pack in his right hand, which Peter found somewhat curious: for whatever reason, the absolute majority of the smokers he knew didn’t advertise their habit.

  Happiness is a cigar called Hamlet. Peter had forgotten where he’d heard this phrase—it must have been decades ago, for sure—and didn’t know why it had stuck in his memory. He remembered that the phrase was an advertising slogan (for Hamlet cigars, obviously). It did fit the situation, didn’t it?

  How did that commercial end, by the way?

  “Now, first things first.” Walsh opened the black plastic folder in front of him, picked up the two top sheets of paper, which had text printed on both sides, and handed them to Peter. “This is a confidentiality agreement. Please read and sign it.”

  When Peter began to read the document, which was simply titled ‘Non-Disclosure Agreement’ and didn’t seem to differ from any other government confidentiality form, Walsh continued, “I suppose you signed a similar paper with the FBI. This one comes from the Department of Defense.” He leaned back in his chair. “I love these guys. They think a piece of paper can stop a guy from blabbing his mouth.”

  “It’s not a perfect solution, but I guess it’s better than getting your tongue cut off.” Peter put his initials wherever required, then signed the agreement, and returned it to the colonel.

  Maybe Walsh picked a windowless office in order to protect himself from a sniper’s bullet? Peter’s boss, who had personally handcuffed half a dozen drug lords back in the day and developed the habit of always sitting with his back against the wall, would call that a healthy paranoia.

  The thought was late to the party, but Peter didn’t mind it. Then he added another idea to the mix: this could be a precaution against long-range laser listening devices that allowed you to eavesdrop from a distance by detecting vibrations of the window glass. No windows—no vibrations.

  Walsh smiled. “You have a sense of humor. I like that.” He signed his name in the witness section of the agreement and placed it back in the folder. “By the way, a person without a tongue can still write and type. Just an observation.”

  “True.”

  “I�
�ll tell you this: when it comes to protecting state secrets, nothing beats the good old dungeon.”

  Peter thought for a few seconds, then nodded, and said with an earnest look on his face, “I guess you’re right.”

  Walsh burst out laughing. “I’m glad you’re not one of those sensitive stuffed shirts with a stick up their asses.”

  “Thank you, Colonel.”

  “Now, let’s get to business. Did your supervisor explain to you the nature of your assignment?”

  “I was told that you’re holding a high-value individual and that I’m supposed to assist you in interrogating him.”

  Walsh nodded. “Yes, that’s what your task is in a nutshell. By the way, I heard very good things about your interrogation skills. How many spies did you break?” His eyes glimmered playfully. Before Peter replied, the colonel went on, “Did they tell you what kind of high-value individual we’re dealing with here?”

  “No. Mister Fuhrman didn’t give me a lot of specifics.”

  “Oh, I see. He didn’t give you specifics because he’s not privy to them. Don’t worry; I’ll provide you with all the details in the course of time.” Walsh grabbed a bottle of water from the top of the fireproof safe, which sat behind him, unscrewed the cap, and took two sips. “It’s going to be fun, my friend. It’s going to be fun, I promise.”

  “So who’s the client?”

  “He’s name’s Max Pollack.” Walsh opened a drawer on his left, pulled out a half-inch thick binder, and handed it to Peter. “Here’s everything you need to know about him. Pollack is a Navy SEAL. Perhaps I should say ‘was;’ I doubt they’ll ever let him continue serve. He’s been on SEAL Team Two for the last four years. They’re stationed at the Little Creek Amphibious Base in Virginia Beach.”

  “Twenty six years old,” Peter muttered as he scanned the page with Pollack’s biographical information.

  “Yes, he’s pretty young, but don’t let his age fool you, Peter. He is very dangerous. Dangerous in a way you’ve never imagined, and I’m not exaggerating.”

  “What kind of information are we trying to get out of him?”