[Anthology] Killer Thrillers

by Nick Thacker

  The hall outside his office was darker than usual. The exit signs at each end and the safety light at the restroom door were the only illumination. During the day and throughout most of the nights during the school year, the halls were filled with the whitewashed glow of florescent ceiling lights. The Geography and World Studies wing of the college was one of several 24-hour facilities on campus, and most of the professors and even some of the students often stayed after hours to finish up grading and assignments. Must be the football game tonight, he thought.

  His eyes wandered over the page on his desk in front of him, sleep sneaking in and causing him to drift away. Finally exhaustion won out, and his eyes closed for a brief moment, his head propped up by his fist. No sooner had he drifted off than his head snapped back upright, and his bleary eyes blinked back open into focus. What was that?

  He could have sworn he’d heard a noise outside his office. He sat dead still at his desk for a full minute, not hearing anything. Finally he rose to his feet and walked — quietly — to his office door. His heart was suddenly pounding, and he stood at the doorway for a moment to catch his breath. Why was he so shaken up tonight? Most likely it was just some kids down the hall, or a night janitor on the other side of the building, nothing to worry about.

  Thwap.

  There it was again, only this time louder. He tensed, frozen in place, straining to hear around the corner. Absolutely silent, he reached out and pulled open his office door. The gentle click of the handle retracting made him stop for a second to listen again, but there wasn’t a sound.

  With the door half open, he leaned his head out slowly and pushed his glasses upwards on his face, as if somehow it would improve his sight in the near darkness. Squinting, he could make out the exit sign at the far end of the hall to his left; to the right he could see about twenty paces until the blackness overcame the feeble light.

  “H-Hello?”

  The silence seemed to intensify. After what seemed an eternity, he let out his breath — he hadn’t realized he’d been holding it — and took one step into the hallway.

  Ever so slowly, he turned to the left and moved tentatively toward the exit. After a few steps his pace quickened, and his timidity gave way to curiosity.

  He was about halfway to the end of the hall when his instincts kicked in. He slowed, suddenly unsure, and tried again to focus on the exit, now about fifty feet ahead. What is that? he thought, as his eyes passed over a large, dark shape on the floor in the corner.

  His heart raced again. The shape slowly became clearer to him. A pile of clothing… no, a coat, and a…

  Oh my God.

  It’s a body.

  As he drew closer, he could make out that the person was unnervingly still — not at all like someone sleeping or even passed out drunk. Jensen had never seen a dead body before — yet he somehow knew that he was looking at one now.

  His heart was racing. Who was this, and what had happened?

  He rolled the facedown body over, and only then noticed the growing pool of blood on the floor underneath. That alone would normally have caused him to jump back, but it was the round bullet hole directly between the man’s eyes that pushed him into a state of panic. He dove back against the wall, fighting to keep from hyperventilating.

  As he stared in shock, he realized the dead man was a security guard. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he actually recognized the man — perhaps he’d spoken to him once or twice before.

  Ok, Jensen, what the hell do you do now?

  He never had time to come up with an answer.

  Thwap.

  8

  Bryce’s week had been a blur. After Mr. Whittenfield left him at the infirmary, Bryce made his final preparations and packed for his departure. The last 72 hours he’d been traveling nonstop, first from the forward operating base to the airstrip four hours south. From there, he’d been flown to an aircraft carrier off the coast and then to a military base outside of London. His wounds, healing quickly, still hurt and provided him with an excuse to continue taking the powerful painkillers the doctor in Iraq had given him. While he was at the base in London, he charged his cell phone and placed a call to his mother’s home in Utah.

  Linda Ortiz, the nurse charged with providing the at-home care, answered and updated him with details on his mother’s health over the past few weeks. It had been awhile since he’d called, so he listened quietly as Linda gave the same response he’d heard countless times.

  “She’s doing well; about as well as can be expected. She’s not hurting, but the symptoms haven’t changed. I’m sure she misses you, too, Mr. Bryce.”

  “I know. Thank you, for everything — actually, I may be able to get back sooner than I’d expected. I’ll let you know for sure. Thanks again, Linda.”

  He hung up and put the phone back in his pocket, slowly, as his left arm was feeling tight. He stood, walking to the window, and tried to picture his mother before the virus had taken her livelihood.

  She was a great woman; strong, but in a gentle way. After his father had passed away six years ago, she’d moved from Denver to the quieter life of a sleepy Utah town. Bryce moved regularly during his first few years in the military, but he had recently rented an apartment in Salt Lake City, less than an hour from her place.

  Good thing, too. He remembered the night she’d called. Confused, frantic, unable to feel her feet or hands. It had taken her three tries just to dial his number.

  By the time he got to her house, she was on the floor in the living room, unable to move.

  The doctors kept her in the hospital for two weeks, but weren’t able to figure what was wrong. Experts in viral and bacterial infections were flown in, but could not isolate the foreign strain that was holding Bryce’s mother hostage. It seemed to be a rare occurrence of an infection chemically similar in composition to Encephalitis, but without the continuing negative side effects. Instead, she was paralyzed from the neck down but stable. Bryce had argued and negotiated, but he had finally persuaded the hospital staff to set up a bed in his mother’s home where she could be continuously monitored and cared for.

  That had been over two years ago.

  Bryce’s life now was split between the Army and caring for his mother. When he wasn’t deployed, he stayed at his mother’s house, taking an odd job here or there to pay her enormous bills.

  As he thought more about the mounting stack of bills he’d be facing upon his return to the states, he remembered the great deal he’d been offered. Sure, it was probably dangerous — you didn’t offer someone two million dollars just to play security guard — but like Whittenfield had said, he’d be able to pay the remainder of his mother’s bills and have more than enough to keep them both comfortable for a while afterward. He sighed, the swelling in his arm and shoulder reminding him of his healing injuries, and walked back to the main hallway.

  Surprisingly, Whittenfield was there to meet him. They shook hands and Bryce followed the older man out to the tarmac where a sleek, business-class Learjet was waiting. Next to the military planes and vehicles surrounding it, the jet seemed out of place. This guy must have some friends in very high places, Bryce thought as he boarded the plane.

  A flight attendant, wearing the Whittenfield Research logo on a blue button-down shirt, appeared and guided Bryce and Whittenfield to a seat toward the back of the plane. They were the only two passengers. This must be Whittenfield’s plane, Bryce thought.

  Promptly, the attendant brought forth two cocktails, a mix of some hard liquor and a fruit juice. Whittenfield swirled his glass and took a drink. Bryce did the same, all the while examining the interior of the fancy plane. Its seats were rhubarb-colored, accented with a rich mahogany. The center of the fuselage had been stripped of the rows of seats and in their place a large, square room stretched toward the cockpit. A sign on the door facing Bryce said “Command,” and Bryce realized then that this plane wasn’t just a means of transportation for the rich businessman.

  It was a mobi
le command center.

  “So, Bryce, let’s dive in. I’m sure you have a lot of questions for me,” Whittenfield began, “and seeing as we have only eight hours of flying time in front of us, we’d better get started.”

  Bryce smiled, the obvious sarcasm not lost on him. “Mr. Whittenfield, I appreciate your hospitality here, and I am interested to get to know what it is exactly that your company does. However, it’s just…” Bryce fumbled for his words, hoping to not insult the man seated across from him. “I guess I just need the reassurance of knowing that this deal you offered me — it seems great; uh, amazing, actually — is going to turn out to be something…” he hesitated, not finding the correct words. Whittenfield held up a hand to interject.

  “Captain Reynolds,” he said. He reached for a small laptop next to him. “I understand that this seems to be quite an unbelievable opportunity for you. However, I promise you that I am more than serious. In fact, I’ll go ahead and transfer the initial one million into an account of your choosing. Further, if you’re not satisfied with the position one week from now, I’ll request half of that amount be wired back to me, and we can go our separate ways. The half-million dollars remaining will be yours as a gift. Consider it the most lucrative workweek of your life.” With a smug grin, he turned the laptop to Bryce and waited for his response.

  The plane started to taxi, only minutes away from takeoff. Bryce sensed that he was also only minutes away from a turning point in his life. He leaned forward in his seat to enter the bank account information, and his new boss — James Whittenfield, Jr. — looked out the window, content.

  9

  Unknown

  He blinked. Am I dead? He blinked again, and the blackness surrounding him slowly became an image. Blurry at first, but gradually more clear.

  He had a splitting headache. Professor Jensen Andrews blinked again and slowly tried to sit up.

  The pain in his side was excruciating, and it took him a couple of tries to fully prop himself up on one arm and look around. He was in a room that was all metal, with no windows or furnishings except for a bed and small toilet in opposite corners. The toilet and bed frame were metal as well. The bed held a thin mattress with several springs protruding from the top.

  The floor was made of double-layer reinforced steel as well, and the only break in the walls was a small square window, no more than a foot in diameter. The window was reinforced with vertical steel bars a few inches apart. Clearly he was not intended to leave.

  Great.

  Jensen looked down at his body to see what was causing the pain in his side. His shirt had been unbuttoned to the waist. His torso was wrapped in a thick gauze bandage. The bandage had a dark, round stain on it, just to the right of his stomach.

  He had been shot. The recollection surprised him. He carefully probed around the spot, getting a feel for how severe it was.

  Suddenly he remembered the security guard; saw perfectly in his mind the hole, placed so precisely in the center of his forehead.

  He looked again at his own wound.

  Whoever had shot him was certainly the same person who’d shot the security guard, yet he was still alive. Somebody wanted him alive — needed him alive.

  Who?

  Just as the question crossed his mind, he heard a loud clang outside the door. Jensen looked up at the small window on the door. There was a brief pause, followed by a shifting sound. Somewhere inside the cell wall a latch was lifted.

  The lock disengaged and Jensen Andrews used all his strength to pull himself into a sitting position.

  “Uncle Jensen, you’re awake!” a young woman’s voice addressed him. “It’s been almost four hours — I was afraid the sedatives you were given were too strong.”

  Andrews blinked again, still not completely lucid. He rubbed his eyes and looked again. The person in the doorway was silhouetted by the light from the hall outside. He had recognized her voice immediately, and seeing her silhouette in the door proved his ears correct, but he still couldn’t believe it was actually her.

  “Uncle Jensen — I’ve been so worried about you. They said you wouldn’t be harmed, but when I saw you come in, bleeding and all, I…“ She choked up. “I thought they’d hurt you,” she sobbed, entering the cell.

  He rushed forward, fighting the pain in his side to embrace his niece. Then he realized that she wasn’t alone. There was a large shadow just outside the cell door.

  A voice broke the silence. “My boss wishes to speak with both of you immediately.”

  “Who are these people, Corinne?” Jensen asked his niece. “What do they want with us, and why was I shot? Did they hurt you?” The questions came quicker than Corinne could respond.

  “Uncle Jensen, I’m fine — they didn’t shoot me, if that’s what you mean. ’And I don’t know why they’d want to shoot you,” she said, with an accusing glance back towards the doorway. “They’re interested in something they think you or I have. I don’t know what it is, but I heard them talking about some sort of an expedition.”

  They were suddenly interrupted as a man strode in from the hall. “Party’s over — let’s go.” His English had a slight accent that Jensen thought could be Eastern Russian. The man jerked a thumb toward the door and stepped back into the hall. Corinne supported her uncle with an arm, and they reluctantly followed.

  As they fell in behind the large guard, a second, slightly smaller man also joined them, cutting off any chance of escape that way. Why bother? Jensen thought. The pain in his side was reminder enough that he didn’t want to take any more chances with these people.

  At the end of the stark hallway, the group ascended a flight of stairs to a set of double doors. Another guard opened the doors, and as they passed through, Jensen felt the air get cooler. Once inside, they found themselves in a high-ceilinged room with a tiled floor, artificial lighting and metal trim. It had the appearance of a gymnasium that had been finished in metal, but judging by the tables and chairs arranged in the center of the room, it looked like it was currently being used as a meeting hall.

  One of the tables was cluttered with a variety of maps, papers, and equipment. Two men were seated at one table on the opposite side of the room. The only person who seemed to notice their entrance was a man dressed in civilian clothes who stood at the central table and greeted them warmly.

  “Professor Jensen, Ms. Banks! It’s good to see you — I’ve been expecting you!” He smiled at them as the large guard took up a position to one side, blocking the exit. “Please pull up a chair, we’ve got some work to do,” the man continued. He held out a hand, as if greeting an old friend over drinks and a cigar. “We have been working diligently for the past few months, trying to plan our trip, but I’m afraid we’ve run out of time.” He looked at Jensen. “We needed to call in an expert.”

  Professor Jensen frowned. “You have a very indelicate method of ‘calling in’ your experts. What do you want with me?”

  The man smiled again. “Jensen Andrews, 52 years old, native of Santa Fe, currently serving as Regents Professor of Ancient and World Studies. Your work in ancient civilizations — specifically the study of prehistoric peoples — has always fascinated me. But you recently published a paper in a research journal called ‘The Golden Civilization: The Original Discoverers of the Number Phi and the Golden Ratio.’”

  Jensen looked at him, confusion settling on his brow. That paper had been a side project he had been interested in for some years, but completing it was nothing more than a “notch on his belt” for his accreditations list — something to publish in order to keep his tenure. He’d spent a few months researching the “Golden Ratio,” represented by the Greek letter ‘Phi’. The so-called ‘Golden Ratio’ referred to a mathematically irrational number — 1.618, and the ratio 1:1.618. In the paper, Jensen had written that this number appeared numerous times in nature — from the spiral shapes of some shells and mollusks to the growth patterns of certain plants and trees — even in human anatomy.

  Man
y groups of people throughout history had recognized the ubiquity of this number and its relationships to the human and natural world. Some groups had ascribed mystical properties to it, and some artists and architects paid homage to that mysticism by incorporating it into their work. Da Vinci, the Greek Parthenon — even in modern design, reflected in the layout of streets and buildings around the world.

  But the true roots of the number — rather, the original “discoverers” of the ratio — were still unknown to modern historians, and it was this puzzle that Jensen had tried to solve in his paper. The results were compelling, yet many of his colleagues and contemporaries at the academic level dismissed the treatise as far too bold of an idea with too little supporting evidence.

  The work had been an interesting aside to his professorial duties at the university, and it had helped to keep him occupied during the previous summer. Still, even he didn’t think the paper was definitive enough to warrant much attention after it was published.

  “Professor Andrews, I feel that you would be a valuable asset to our team. My name is Dr. Tanning Vilocek, and I have spent the last thirty years of my life trying to find the solution to one problem. I believe you can help me solve that problem.”

  “Dr. Vilocek, I don’t understand — what exactly is it that you’re trying to accomplish?”

  “And why were we kidnapped?” Corinne suddenly interjected. “Why not just ask for help?”

  Dr. Vilocek didn’t respond. Instead, he sat down and sifted carefully through a stack of papers on the table. He gently extracted one document from the pile. It was old — very old — two yellowed and cracking pages loosely bound together. He carefully slid it toward Jensen and Corinne.

  “If in fact this item is one of a larger collection, we have underestimated immensely the gravity of the situation. As the men here have seen firsthand, the item has already shown some intriguing characteristics.