MYSTERY THRILLER DOUBLE PLAY BOX SET (Two full-length novels)

by Osborne, Jon

  With Halloween fast approaching at the end of the month, the theater’s offerings had been littered with the typical seasonal fare:

  Paranormal Activity 4; 1hr 35min; R; Horror

  Argo; 2hr 0min; R; Drama

  Fun Size; 1hr 30min; PG-13; Comedy

  Hotel Transylvania; 1hr 31min; PG; Animation

  Silent Hill: Revelation 3D; 1hr 34min; R; Horror

  Cloud Atlas; 2hr 44min; R; Drama

  Jack chewed thoughtfully on his lower lip while he considered his options. For starters, he’d leave the animated movies to the kiddies, figuring he’d already made his point quite sharply with that mostly annoying age group just a few days prior at St. Anthony’s Catholic grade school over in Lorain. So Hotel Transylvania was off the list from the get-go. Of the remaining offerings, however – horror, drama and comedy – which genre best suited his purpose today?

  Seven-fifty to the skin-challenged male teen in the badly scratched Plexiglas booth out front secured his ticket to the afternoon showing of his choice a few minutes later. Entering the humongous brick building through the revolving glass doors and proceeding to hand over his ticket to the elderly woman in charge of this particularly high-tech aspect of the theater’s security operations, Jack passed through the clicking metal turnstile and turned to his left. Twenty-five yards down the hall on his right, Theater 16 marked the place where all the shit would start going down.

  Jack walked as normally as he could manage considering the cargo he’d brought along with him today, making his way all the way down to the end of the long corridor with the enticing smell of warm butter filling his nostrils. Pulling open the heavy outer door to Theater 16 a moment later, he stepped inside the darkened space and glanced down to the bottom of theater. On the massive movie screen a hundred and fifty feet away, animated candy and talking boxes of popcorn were playfully urging moviegoers to be mindful of their fellow film buffs and to resist the urge to cause any unnecessary disruptions during the showing of the feature.

  Sorry, animated candy and talking boxes of popcorn, but that just didn’t represent a realistic option today. Not for Jack Yuntz, anyway.

  Descending the sticky carpeted steps all the way down to the bottom of the theater, Jack took his seat directly in the middle of the front row and stretched out his long legs in front of him in order to allow the fully loaded machinegun hidden beneath his trench coat to rest comfortably along his right thigh. The seat certainly didn’t represent the best viewing angle for anyone who wanted to follow along with the movie’s plotline without sustaining a serious neck cramp in the process, of course, but it just so happened to mark the ideal location for someone who desired a bird’s-eye look at all of the action that would be taking place from front to back. Not to mention the fact that it was conveniently located right next to the fire exit outside of which Jack had parked his latest getaway car: a piece-of-shit, light-blue 1989 Ford Escort that he’d picked up for a measly six hundred bucks off Craigslist and which he would drop off later on tonight in one of Cleveland’s countless east-side ghettos after finishing up the stunning thing he’d come here to do this afternoon.

  Jack allowed himself a small smile at just how perfect everything seemed at the moment. Twisting at his hips from right to left until he both felt and heard a satisfying pop, he stretched his aching neck in the same direction in an effort to loosen up the muscles bunched so tightly together in his narrow shoulders, wanting to be completely ready for what would come next. Once again, it appeared, all the world was indeed a stage – even the expansive seating area directly behind him that had been reserved for people who had no idea in hell they’d be serving as supporting actors today instead of simply representing the audience for an incredibly stupid movie that no doubt reflected quite accurately on the pathetically dismal state of their collective IQ.

  Jack chased away the thoroughly inconsequential thought with a quick shake of his head, wanting to keep his mind completely free of any sort of mental clutter and focused squarely on what really mattered here. The intelligence of the people around him at the moment simply didn’t warrant another single second of consideration. After all, dumb people died every bit as easily as the smart ones did, right? Maybe even more easily.

  Only one way to find out for sure.

  Tilting back his head, Jack rested the base of his skull directly against the springy back of his heavily cushioned seat and closed his eyes in the overly air-conditioned space, letting his thoughts drift back to the master template for what he had planned today: the mass-shooting that had gone down at the Century movie theater just a few months prior in Aurora, Colorado – a very unlucky state that seemed to have far more than its fair share of just these sorts of tragedies.

  Much of what would happen today here in Rocky River, Ohio would mirror those events almost perfectly. Jack hadn’t died his hair bright orange like James Eagen Holmes had, of course – hadn’t even considered doing such a ridiculous thing. Those sorts of amateurish – not too mention unnecessary – theatrics only drew undue attention to your person, which certainly didn’t mark the wisest course of action for someone who desired to remain just as unremarkable as he possibly could. And Jack sure as hell wouldn’t allow himself to be arrested outside the theater just minutes after pulling off the grisly deed. That would be even stupider. So, after everything had been said and done and outside of the obvious similarities involved in their preferred methods of message-delivery, he and James Holmes shared very little in common, indeed.

  For one thing, Jack wasn’t a broke-ass college student. Not even close. He could thank Jared von Waldenberg – the infamous Race Master – for that much. Because not only had the brain-addled white supremacist sprung Jack from a boys’ detention home in upstate New York several months earlier in order to help him carry out his own nefarious plans after Jack had plunged a sharp pair of scissors deep into the exposed throat of Special Agent Jeremy Brown in the Presidential Suite of the Fontainebleau Hotel in downtown Manhattan, the ridiculously wealthy nut-job had also paid him quite handsomely to do so. Cash. The way Jack figured it, as long as he continued to pay for all of his purchases with paper currency not readily subject to the electronic tracking law enforcement depended on so heavily these days he had nothing at all to worry about. Living off the grid, so to speak, definitely had its benefits.

  Still, it could get lonely at times.

  Wondering idly what Molly might be up to at this very moment, Jack sat forward in his seat again and looked up at the huge movie screen fifteen feet away when the film finally began to roll five minutes later. Twenty interminable and hopelessly mind-numbing minutes after that, he pulled back the sleeve of his trench coat and checked the time again on his trusty Timex watch in the darkened theater. 3:10 p.m. By his calculations, the events over at St. Christopher’s Catholic Church should be in full swing by now, with much gnashing of teeth and beating of breasts as the heartbroken community gathered ‘round to mourn the sudden and absolutely tragic passing of Special Agent Dana Whitestone of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

  Jack inhaled quickly several time through his nostrils and let out the air again in short rushes over his teeth as his pulse began to hammer away in his wrists. Then he tightened his lips into a firm line. Clearly, the time had come for him to pay his own special tribute to Dana Whitestone.

  Heartbeat slamming powerfully in his ears to supply the deafening internal soundtrack for the dizzyingly surreal scene, he rose to his feet as calmly as he could manage and turned around to face the crowd, simultaneously sliding out the machinegun from his trench coat and leveling his weapon at the mass of humanity now positioned in front of him.

  Unbelievably – despite just how fresh the horrific events in Aurora, Colorado must have been in their minds – most of the idiots in attendance didn’t even bother to look at him as he did so, much too engrossed in the supremely dumb film playing at the moment to even glance at him.

  Jack shook his head in disgust. Time to see just how
easily stupid people died.

  Taking one final breath that puffed out his narrow chest against his trench coat, he held it tight in his lungs and pulled back his right index finger firmly on the trigger of his machinegun, keeping up the steady pressure and breathing in the resulting tendrils of sharp-smelling smoke that floated up into his flared nostrils while he methodically sprayed the crowd with ear-shattering gunfire from right to left and then from left to right again, finally prompting the now-stunned theater-goers taking in Fun Size to notice him.

  At least – in some cases – for the few, terror-stricken seconds that it took before their heads suddenly exploded on their shoulders in shocking sprays of red, white and gray.

  Amazingly, Jack somehow managed to keep himself from bursting out into peals of maniacal laughter while he continued to efficiently mow down the rapidly dispersing crowd of screaming people that was desperately trying to escape the conveniently enclosed space, this despite the immense pride he felt inside for having chosen a comedy as the location for this very important second act in his beautifully written script.

  Still, why the hell shouldn’t he laugh?

  After all, whether or not it might make him a bad person completely unworthy of any sort of love from his fellow human beings, this shit was funny to him.

  CHAPTER 16

  No matter how hard he tried to do so, FBI Director Bill Krugman simply couldn’t wrap his brain around the mind-bending fact that he found himself here today.

  Twenty feet in front of his face, a shining white coffin holding the dead body of Dana Whitestone rested on an accordion-like bed of collapsible metal, situated on wheels and book-ended by a pair of large cardboard photographs supported by sturdy wooden easels.

  The photograph to the right of Dana’s gleaming coffin showed her at four years old, flanked by her murdered parents, James and Sara – the first known victims of Nathan Stiedowe on July 4th, 1976. The photograph to the left of Dana’s shining casket pictured her holding up her plump, black-and-white cat close to her face while her beautiful pale-blue eyes danced with mirth in the bright sunlight that was illuminating the pleasant scene at a stunningly green park – the kind of unmistakable joy only brought about by children and a beloved pet that just as well might have been a child. Your child.

  Krugman closed his own tired brown eyes against the horrible sight that his frazzled brain still couldn’t quite comprehend. He’d lost agents under his command before, of course – everyone who’d ever held his job since the formal inception of the Bureau way back in 1935 had lost agents under their command, including the inestimable J. Edgar Hoover, himself. And everyone who’d ever hold the job in the future after Krugman had finally stepped down from the post and ridden off into the sunset of his life would need to prepare him or herself for that unavoidable eventuality, as well. It marked the harshest reality in an occupation full of harsh realities that liked nothing better than to slap you hard across your face on a daily basis – sometimes even before you had a chance to take the first sip of your morning coffee.

  Still, he’d never lost an agent to suicide before.

  And he’d certainly never lost an agent anything quite like Dana Whitestone.

  Krugman brushed an imaginary piece of lint from the sleeve of his best black suit and stretched his aching neck that had come courtesy of the frantic, unscheduled plane ride he’d taken three days earlier. Adjusting the tiny American flag pin tucked into his left lapel, he took a deep breath that filled up his lungs with the stale, unmoving air inside the church. Then he rose to his feet in the front row of St. Christopher’s when he heard the priest announce his name.

  Making his way somberly up the marble altar stairs with the thunderous swish of his own dress pants echoing loudly in his ears in the deathly silent church, Krugman reached the heavy wooden lectern stationed at the front of the overflowing place of worship and repositioned the microphone in front of his mouth, causing several jarring bursts of static to crackle through the air before he reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and withdrew a folded-up sheet of paper upon which he’d jotted down a few notes.

  Slipping his reading glasses onto his face, he looked up at the assembled mourners in front of him. Clearing his throat softly, he then began to deliver a eulogy that he’d never in a million years thought he’d ever need to deliver, having fully expected that his and Dana’s positions would have been reversed when this time came.

  “Dana Whitestone was my friend, my colleague and one of the finest agents I’ve ever known in my entire career,” Krugman began, relieved beyond words to find that his characteristically gruff voice still felt and sounded relatively steady despite the heartbreaking circumstances. “Dana loved and was loved from the moment she drew her first breath in this life to the moment she drew her last…”

  As he continued speaking, Krugman fell into an easy rhythm memorializing Dana; unable to keep his mind from drifting back to all the people he’d lost in his life over the years. He couldn’t help but think of Crawford Bell, his closet friend, confidant and ally ever since their first days together back at the Academy more than forty years earlier and a man whom Nathan Stiedowe had strung up carelessly by the neck in an oversized closet with all the respect one might show a squealing, squirming hog scheduled for an impending slaughterhouse butchering. There’d been his old brother, Bob, who’d died in Vietnam back in 1967, one of the first casualties of that extremely bloody war that hadn’t even decided a winner when he’d stumbled upon a landmine hidden in the dense jungle. His parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles: all gone now. Cousins, in-laws, friends, enemies, colleagues and softball buddies. Two mailmen, a butcher and his insurance agent. And he’d very nearly lost his wife, Peggy, to breast cancer the previous year. Still, no huge shock to Krugman that he’d lost all those people. Not really. He was almost seventy-two years old now, for Christ’s sake. Practically had one foot in the grave himself. So like it or not – and he most certainly didn’t like it – he realized that life was ultimately death in the end, and the older he got the more he’d begun to accept that ugly truth.

  Still, Dana had been much too young to go. Much, much too young.

  Not to mention much too important to him.

  Krugman held on tight to the sides of the lectern and dug his fingernails deep into the wood in an effort to steady himself against the powerful waves of emotion that were crashing through his body. He knew that he’d never have another agent like Dana again. God had broken the mold after he’d made her, and now He’d broken Krugman’s heart – not to mention the hearts of a lot of other people – by taking her away again in the thoroughly shocking manner He had.

  Three minutes into his eulogy, Krugman abruptly snapped up his head at the sudden sound of several beepers going off at once inside the church. Anger flared up hot in his chest. His temples began to pound. He gritted his teeth, ready to explode in an apoplectic rage at the disgusting lack of respect being shown for a person of Dana’s unequaled caliber. She deserved better than this, goddamn it. Just then, though, his own beeper vibrated insistently in his pocket.

  A hundred feet away – ten or twelve pews deep – Bruce Blankenship sprang to his feet and caught Krugman’s eye. The sandy-haired agent jerked his head toward the exit.

  Flustered, Krugman tried his best to stay calm. Wasn’t easy. Overly pressurized blood slammed away at his temples, bringing on an instant, throbbing headache that he knew wouldn’t go away anytime soon. A thin trickle of sweat slipped down his ribs underneath his white dress shirt.

  Turning toward the priest in charge of conducting Dana’s funeral, he said, “Could you please take over here for me, Father? I’m afraid we have a situation on our hands.”

  Murmurs of disapproval rippled throughout the church. Thankfully, though, the man of the cloth stationed directly to Krugman’s left had already begun to make his way back over to the lectern. Sliding behind the wooden pulpit in Krugman’s place, he quieted the crowd by raising his hands, palms-up
. “Dana Whitestone loved and was loved from the moment she drew her first breath in this life to the moment she drew her last. Beloved daughter, friend and colleague, Dana epitomized complete grace and courage throughout all her days here on Earth. I know that Dana would have wanted us to remember…”

  Krugman lost the priest’s words as he reached the side exit of the church and banged out through the door. Blankenship was waiting for him on the other side.

  “This had better be good,” Krugman snarled, feeling his face heat up again with a fresh infusion of blood. “We’ve interrupted a goddamn funeral here, for Christ’s sake. Dana’s funeral.”

  Blankenship nodded. “Yes, sir. I understand that.”

  Krugman waited for an explanation. Unbelievably, none was forthcoming. The Director closed his eyes briefly, balling up his hands at his sides in order to prevent himself from reaching out and choking the life out of the mute idiot right where he stood. “Well, Blankenship,” he snapped, “what the fuck is it?”

  Blankenship held out his beeper. Krugman snatched it from his hands.

  He needed to read the shocking type three times through before the horrible message from Headquarters finally sank in:

  MASS SHOOTING AT WESTWOOD MOVIE CINEMA IN ROCKY RIVER, OHIO; AT LEAST THIRTY DEAD; STAGING AREA IN PARKING LOT OUT FRONT; ALL LAW ENFORCEMENT AND FIRST RESPONDERS IN TEN-MILE RADIUS ARE REQUESTED TO REPORT; LIKELY NATIONAL AND GLOBAL MEDIA INTEREST TO FOLLOW.

  CHAPTER 17

  A strong north-westerly wind howled like a pack of screeching banshees through the movie-theater parking lot, whipping hard through Bill Krugman’s full head of distinguished silver hair as he attempted to make sense of the mind-jarring tableau before him.