The Thriller Collection

by S W Vaughn

  God, how is she sixteen already? Sometimes I feel like all I did was blink, and my sweet little girl who used to love cupcakes with too much frosting, everything Harry Potter, and of all things, monster trucks, had traded places with this beautiful, distracted woman-child who has a phone permanently grafted to her hand, who whispers and giggles with her friends over real-life boys instead of fictional ones, who keeps secrets from me when we used to share everything.

  This year is going to be hard. I’m already overprotective, I know that — and sixteen is the banner year. The danger year, at least in my trauma-warped, disordered mind. I can see myself smothering her with my own fears, the ghosts of my past, all those dead girls and me. If I’m not careful, I could drive a wedge between us that will never go away.

  Renata keeps her gloomy, half-asleep silence until we pull up in front of the first stop, a pale green Colonial at the end of a cul-de-sac. This is the Klines’ place, and Jenny Kline is my daughter’s ‘bestest friend in the whole wide world.’ They’ve been practically inseparable since kindergarten. Jenny and Rennie. When I stop the car, Jenny comes bounding out the door, beaming as always despite the early hour, and vaults into the back seat. “Morning, Mrs. Osborn,” she says, and before I can say good morning back, she and Renata are chattering away like a couple of magpies in that nearly incomprehensible language every generation of teens seems to develop as a defense mechanism against lurking parental ears.

  We have two more passengers to pick up. Tonya Washington, three blocks from Jenny, is the shyest of the group and tends to spend the whole trip staring out the window, chewing on a thumbnail. The last stop is for Drew Ritter, who was Renata’s first official boyfriend. But since they were both six years old at the time, there’s been no lingering awkwardness from the ‘breakup.’ These days Drew wears more jewelry and makeup than my daughter. I’m no longer sure what that means for modern kids, but no one seems to mind, so I don’t either.

  It’s not far from Drew’s house to the high school, and when we arrive, the drop-off line is relatively short. I pull up behind the distinctive canary-yellow Humvee that happens to belong to my obnoxiously perfect neighbors, the Clarks, and turn to Renata while we wait. “What’s going on after school today, honey?”

  A stricken look flashes across her face, and I realize I’ve committed the cardinal sin of calling her ‘honey’ in front of her friends. “Soccer practice,” she mumbles, sinking down in her seat with a huff. “Seriously, Mom, I already told you that last night. Jenny’s mom is picking us up. I’ll be home around five.”

  “All right. That’s fine, then,” I say. I can’t apologize for the slip now, because that would be even more embarrassing. “Do you still have a game Friday night? Your father said he should be home in time to make it. He’s only working a half-day on Friday.”

  “Really? That’d be cool, if you can both come,” she says. “Yeah, it’s at six.”

  I nod and smile, glad she’s still at least somewhat interested in having her parents involved in her life. My husband, Richard, owns a very successful landscaping business and often works long hours, but he makes a constant effort to stay involved in our daughter’s life so she won’t feel his absence. He’s a wonderful father, a wonderful husband. My rock, even after what we went through in the early years, when my condition was not as controlled as it is now. Unlike my mother, he stuck by me through the hard times, and now we’re better than ever.

  We married young — I was only twenty at the time, although Richard was twenty-eight — and everyone said it would never work out. But here we are, and I couldn’t be happier with our family, our life. Sullen teenager and all.

  This too shall pass, I tell myself. Again.

  Finally, the two perfect Clark boys get out of the Humvee and it drives away, and I pull forward into the drop-off section. Renata pops her door at the exact same time Jenny opens the back passenger door, but the back driver’s side door stays closed. Even at the high school, the kids aren’t allowed to exit a vehicle on the traffic side. “Bye, Mom,” Renata calls reflexively over her shoulder, just before she shuts the door and moves away from the car, as if she’s hoping no one saw her getting out of it.

  When they’re all out and the last door closes, I grip the wheel and hold back a sigh. I can’t believe how hard it is to let her grow up. Everybody tells you that’s your job, to raise your children well enough so they don’t need you, but no one mentions how much it hurts to actually succeed, to no longer be needed.

  Parenting might be the only job where success can make you miserable.

  The crossing guard waves me on, and I pull away slowly and complete the gentle arch of the circular drive in front of the high school, signaling to turn onto the main road. I have an appointment at nine, but that’s still over an hour away. Not enough time to go home and do anything, too much time to sit in the lot at the office park and wait. So I decide to run a few errands in the meantime.

  Dayfield isn’t big enough for our own Wal-Mart or Target, or any kind of mega-center, but we do have a twenty-four-hour supermarket, and it’s only a few miles from the office park. Price Cutter dominates the mini-plaza at the north end of town, taking up three-quarters of the frontage while a nail salon, a liquor store, and a former pet supply place that’s been available for lease for two years huddle in its shadow.

  This early in the day, there are plenty of decent parking spaces available. I pull into one next to a cart return near the front end of the lot, where I’m facing the strip of scrub pine and birch trees that separate the plaza parking lot from the homes on the other side. It’s something I don’t think about often, how many trees there are around here. This town is surrounded by forest on all sides, and randomly sprinkled with patches and swathes of trees throughout.

  In fact, the eastern border of the Singing Woods is right behind this very plaza.

  Goosebumps race across my skin, and I close my eyes and breathe slowly. I clear my mind the way Dr. Bradshaw taught me. White light in, dark thoughts out. The danger is over. Stewart Brooks is dead.

  Finally, I feel steady enough to get on with my day. I get out of the car, push the key fob button to lock it, and head for the store. As I’m passing the cart return, a flash of movement catches my attention and I glance toward the trees edging the parking lot. I’m thinking it was probably a squirrel, a bird, someone’s cat out for a morning stroll.

  There’s a man standing in front of the trees, like he just stepped out from them.

  Shocked panic drills into me and freezes my blood before I’m fully conscious of what I see. He’s perfectly still. Dirty black jeans, stained camouflage hunting vest over a dark thermal shirt, big boots, a shapeless cap jammed over dark, stringy hair. Smooth-shaven. Eyes like storm clouds, glaring thunderbolts at me.

  His face. His face. Exactly as he looked twenty years ago. It’s impossible, I know that, but there’s no mistaking him. I’ve never been able to erase the face of death from my mind.

  Someone is screaming. I barely realize it’s me, don’t understand that I’m falling until a sudden, explosive pain smacks my knees when they hit the pavement, and a gray blur rushes toward my face. The only sound in the whole world is an intense ringing in my ears, like a bomb went off right next to me.

  All at once, there’s someone trying to pull me up.

  I jerk back hard and lunge to my feet, flailing my arms like mad. The back of my hand whacks something cold and hard, making a hollow metallic boing, and I cry out and stumble blindly a few steps. Oh God, he’s back, he’s going to take me again. This is not happening. It can’t happen.

  “Madeline!” The voice is definitely female — not him — laced with concern and fear. “What’s wrong? Paul, I think you should call 911.”

  My jumbled senses clarify in an instant, and I force myself to breathe and turn toward the voice. “No, wait. I’m sorry,” I say, panting as I focus on the two older people standing by the cart return, watching me like I’m a wild bear who’s just torn
loose from a steel jaw-trap. I know them. Paul and Diane Blanchard. Their granddaughter, Eve, is on Renata’s soccer team, and we’ve attended enough games together to be on a first-name basis, though we never exchange more than small talk.

  Diane gives me a worried frown. “You nearly passed out, and … are you all right, dear? You look terrible.”

  I am not all right. But instead of answering the question, I ask one of my own. “Did you see a man over there by the trees?” I wave in the general direction of where he came out, horrified but not surprised to see no sign of the man who couldn’t possibly have been Stewart Brooks. “Dark clothes, dark hair, hunting cap?”

  Diane shakes her head and glances at her husband, who clears his throat awkwardly. “No, we didn’t see anyone,” he says. “Are you sure I can’t call someone for you?”

  I’m cold all over, and for a moment I don’t know if I’ll be able to answer him. Finally I say, “Thank you, but I think I just need to sit down for a minute.” I’m already making my way back to the car, fumbling for my keys. “I skipped breakfast this morning,” I mumble as I press the unlock button and see the headlights flash.

  There’s no way I can tell these people I barely know that I just saw a dead man.

  Diane starts to say something else, but I get in the car and close the door on her words. I feel pretty bad about that. She was only trying to help, and I must’ve hit either her or Paul, whichever one of them had grabbed me when I collapsed. The back of my hand is throbbing where I whacked it into the cart return, and there’s a nasty red mark that’s already starting to bruise along the edges. At least one of my knees is skinned, too. I can feel blood trickling down my shin.

  I sit in the car with the doors locked, all thoughts of grocery shopping gone. Somehow, I must’ve been hallucinating. The man who’d abducted me and killed all those girls was long dead.

  But it was him. I know that face. It’s the only thing I remember. His face as he chased me, as he died.

  As I killed him.

  Not for the first time, I think I should’ve left Dayfield when I had the chance. I never should’ve come back home. I could be somewhere else right now, living with a fresh start. But I’d moved back in with the ghosts.

  Still, I wouldn’t trade my family for anything. My husband, my daughter.

  They’re worth it.

  The slam of a car door somewhere in the parking lot pulls me away from my frantic, half-formed thoughts, and I grab for my phone to check the time. I’m not sure how long I’ve been sitting here. Five minutes, maybe ten. If I can pull myself together, maybe I can still run into the store for a few things.

  I’m stunned to find that it’s almost nine. I’ve been in the car for over forty minutes.

  I start the engine and jab the power button for the driver’s side window, suddenly too aware of the heat and the stale air I’ve been breathing all this time. My appointment is going to be very hard today, because I’ll have to tell Dr. Bradshaw what I saw. Or thought I saw. I can already see her disappointment. According to her, I’d been making real progress.

  Now that progress is gone, and I’m not sure I can face the idea of losing my mind again.

  WHAT SHE FORGOT is available now from Amazon and Kindle Unlimited. Grab your copy today!

  How do you stop a killer whose victims are volunteering to die?

  A decorated soldier framed for a crime he didn't commit. An expert hacker who's guilty as hell, but not for what he was convicted of.

  In prison, Ozzy Stone and Roman Blade were cellmates -- and bitter rivals. Now on the outside, each of them trying to rebuild some semblance of a life, they're forced into a tense and deadly partnership with more lives than their own at stake.

  Because young women are disappearing, and someone's playing pin-the-blame on the ex-cons. And time is running out in the desperate race to rescue a woman who doesn't want to be saved.

  “Darkly descriptive … darkly disturbing … the author had me guessing the outcome until the very end.”

  --on Terminal Consent

  Chapter 1

  They’d doped her up so hard, she had no idea where she was. Or who she was. But at least it didn’t hurt anymore.

  She’d lost count of the stops, the sessions. It was always the same. They’d drive her somewhere, stick her in a room bound and hooded. Eventually there was a man. He would hurt her. Violate her. Then she was taken to another place. New room, new man. Or maybe it was the same man. She couldn’t tell.

  This had been happening for days. Weeks. She wasn’t sure how long.

  The drugs helped. Every time someone approached her with a needle, she welcomed it. The pain went away with her mind, and she didn’t have to think about anything. She could let it happen then.

  She’d asked for this. She remembered that much.

  She wished she could remember why.

  The heavy black hood was yanked roughly from her head, taking a few strands of hair with it. She barely noticed. The lighting was low, but it was enough to sting her eyes and make her squint after the long darkness. Through her blurred vision, she made out a small red light across the room. The red eye always watched.

  A dark shape moved in front of her, blocking the red eye. The new man. Please let him be the last, she thought as a fragment of clarity pierced her drugged haze.

  “Alma,” she croaked through chapped lips. “My name is Alma.”

  “Is it?” The man’s voice was flat, uncaring.

  A jumble of disjointed thoughts surged through her. He was dying, he was…someone she loved. But no one cared. No one helped people like her. Broke, outcast, desperate. They’d offered millions and salvation, and she said yes. My life for his. But they never said how they’d take it from her.

  “Brian,” she whispered. “My boy.”

  The blurry man-shape held up a slender object. A syringe. “I have something for you, darling,” he said in his flat, cold voice.

  Alma shuddered. “Yes. Please…”

  The sting faded fast, taking her memories with it. She managed to raise her head. “Are you the last teacher?” she said, speaking carefully with a thickening tongue.

  “I am.”

  Her whole body sighed, and a vacant smile drifted across her face. Here was her dark angel, her merciful executioner. It was finally over.

  The end took a long time coming. But she smiled and smiled, and cried out with joy as the red eye watched her die.

  Chapter 2

  From the way the bartender had talked about the place, Ozzy Stone expected half-naked girls accosting people in the parking lot, and more neon lights than the Vegas strip. But Kat’s Basement was a low-slung brick building at the dead end of a long dirt road, surrounded by endless Virginia woods. The big gravel lot was half filled with cars, and there wasn’t a hint of neon or a single girl around. Raunchy, muffled techno music from inside the building was the only sign something was happening here.

  Ozzy swung his bike into a space between an oversized pickup and a crookedly parked, screaming red Jaguar. He killed the engine and sat there for a minute, wondering if he was actually going to do this. If his options had really come down to muscling tweaked-out assholes in some sleazy kink club, or drinking himself into the ground.

  Right now he’d prefer Option B. But Jimmy Henson had threatened to ban him from the bar unless he at least tried to rejoin society — and if he drank alone in the house that used to be home, he’d end up eating a bullet.

  With a heavy sigh, he pulled the flask from his jacket pocket and took a long swig. Old Crow might’ve tasted like kerosene and rotten cherries, but it was cheap and it got the job done. He just couldn’t face this completely sober. And if he blew this so-called interview, he could still tell Jimmy that he’d honestly tried.

  All right, Stone. Step one is get off the bike. He did, and when his legs told him he wasn’t fall-down drunk yet, he moved on to step two: Walk to the door. There, he paused long enough to disgust himself. He’d been waiting for the
buzz of an electronic lock, for someone to prod him or shout at him to move.

  Step three. Go inside.

  Before his brain could convince him that another drink would help, he pulled the door open — and found himself staring into a face like a rusted shovel. The unsmiling man was a bit taller than him, and he wasn’t exactly short. Lean and craggy, tapered build, the first two knuckles of both hands swollen and scarred. Definitely a brawler. There was an earpiece jammed into his right ear, and a second door behind him, presumably leading inside.

  “Let’s see your card,” the man said after a long, awkward pause.

  Ozzy frowned. “I don’t have one.”

  “Then get out.”

  “I have an appointment.” He dug in his jeans pockets until he found the receipt Jimmy had scribbled on. “With…Katra Solange.”

  “Who set you up?”

  “Jimmy Henson.”

  Shovel Face snorted and tapped his earpiece. “Got some scruffy beefcake wannabe here to see Kat,” he said with a leer. “She expecting?”

  Ozzy knew damned well he was being baited. He refused to bite. Proving himself tended to put people in the hospital, and he didn’t want that kind of attention. He assumed a bland expression and waited.

  Eventually the man glared him into paying attention. “Name?”

  “Ozzy Stone.”

  “Yeah, that’s him,” Shovel Face said into the earpiece. He tapped it again and held a hand out. “See some ID,” he said.

  “Sure.” Hopefully it was still in his wallet. He mostly carried it around as an afterthought and hadn’t bothered with anything but the bank card and the cash. After a brief hunt, he found his age-yellowed driver’s license stuffed into a slot behind an equally ancient discount card for some store that had probably gone out of business. The license stuck when he pulled it out.