9 More Killer Thrillers

by Russell Blake

Walter said, “She’s the best patient I’ve worked with. Bright. Fantastic memory. Tell her something once and she’s got it. And a hard worker. We went five hours yesterday. That’s hard brain work, like learning a language or the piano. Heck, I was exhausted. And when I left her alone, she kept practicing on her own.”

  “So much to learn,” Meggie said. “I have wasted enough time. You understand?”

  “Of course we do,” Wes said. “These two more than anyone.” He gestured to Walter and Uncle Davis.

  “Tell me, Meggie,” Davis said. “Would you like to work for the foundation?”

  She tried to answer, but the lights flickering across the board kept missing their marks and something like gibberish came out.

  “Oops,” Walter said. “Try again.”

  “Level three?” she asked. “For one moment.”

  Walter’s eyes flickered and the screen flipped from a bluish tint to green. A simpler pattern of letters and syllables appeared. Back down to level three. Then it shifted blue again.

  “Never mind. I’m not putting your training wheels back on. You’re good with level four. Slow down if you need more time.”

  “Okay.” Meggie seemed to gather herself. “I am handica . . . am paraly . . . alyzed. How do I help?”

  “You’re not the only one,” Walter said. “If you want to join us, we’ll make it happen.”

  “I want to. Badly. But what can I do?”

  “Don’t worry,” Uncle Davis said. “We’ll figure that out. Smart, fast learner—you’re exactly what we need. And we can work around handicaps. That’s what we do.”

  “Does Eric work for you, too?”

  “As much as he can,” Wes answered. “But a lot of it is computer work. Meeting people. It’s not always easy to find him something to do.”

  “Maybe he could be Meggie’s assistant,” Becca said. “She needs plenty of physical help.”

  “Eric himself needs assistance. I don’t think—”

  “Of course he does,” Becca said. “But I’ve got an idea about that, too. What I’m thinking is—”

  “Hold on,” Wes interrupted, before it could go any farther. “Let’s get through Meggie’s rehab first. Then we can worry about arranging an aide and whatnot.”

  “I want to see him,” Meggie said. “May I, please?”

  “In a bit,” he said, maybe a little too quickly. “He’s playing a video game and . . . well, maybe at lunch.”

  It was the first thing Eric asked when they’d arrived at the house. Could he see Meggie? Where was she? What was she doing? Could she talk any better than last time? Wes had a hard time putting him off. Only video games distracted him in the end.

  Wes had hoped to think about the issue before questioning Meggie, but decided this needed more immediate consideration. Probably for the best. Deal with matters sooner, rather than later.

  “Walter,” he said, “could I have a word with Meggie?”

  “Oh?”

  His face didn’t move, but Wes could swear the man was raising an eyebrow, at least mentally.

  “I guess we could cut out early for lunch,” Walter said.

  “I’ll call staff,” Uncle Davis said. “Have them whip up something.”

  The two men wheeled out of the room. The door swung shut behind them, controlled by computer. Wes eyed Becca, still sitting in that peculiar posture common to pregnant women who struggled to support aching backs. Thirty-seven weeks now, and counting.

  “I’ll stay,” she said. “You might need a neutral third party.”

  He started to protest, but Becca’s eyebrows shot straight up. “Okay, but I’m warning you, I might get stubborn about this.”

  “Of course you will.”

  “Meggie,” he said. “Do you know what Eric thinks about you?”

  The screen lit up. “Not for sure. I want to ask him.”

  “I can tell you. He has a serious crush.”

  “Don’t call it a crush,” Becca said. “It infantilizes him.”

  “Infatuation, then. Let’s be realistic about his cognitive abilities.”

  “So he’s disabled. That doesn’t mean he isn’t serious about Meggie. It’s not like your brother jumps from one love interest to another.”

  Wes turned back to Meggie. “So you’re going to ask him how he feels? Let’s say he professes his love like the hero in some romantic comedy. What do you tell him? Thanks, kid!”

  “I tell him . . . ” Meggie stopped. The screen flashed twice, as she got off sync and had to start over. “I tell him that I want to be with him.”

  Becca leaned forward. Her eyes gleamed. “You do?”

  “Hold on,” Wes said. “You know what you’re saying, right?”

  “Don’t worry about me,” Meggie said. “I am an adult. I can make my own decisions. Decide what is best for me. I am not afraid of being hurt.”

  “Meggie, I’m not talking about you—I’m talking about my brother. I’m worried about his feelings, not yours.”

  “You are?”

  “Eric is loyal. He’s never had a girlfriend before, but once he does, he won’t let go. I know you’ve been locked in there for seven years. You must have been so lonely.”

  “You have no idea.”

  “I can only imagine. I’ve never been there. But it sounds like hell, the stuff of nightmares. The idea of a boyfriend, or someone fawning over you, must be exciting. And he saved your life. That’s got to hit hard.”

  Becca put a hand on his wrist. “Wes.”

  “I need to say it. Now, before it goes too far and someone gets hurt.” He turned back to Meggie. “But you’re out now. True, barring some huge new medical advance, you’ll never walk again, never feed yourself. You won’t be running in the Paralympics. But your mind is free, and that’s what makes us human. If you’re happy and optimistic now, just wait, it gets even better. You’ll be working, you’ll have a purpose. And you’re a smart woman—you’re going to grow tired of my brother. So you’ll break up. That will destroy him. I can’t let you do that.”

  “Let me tell you,” Meggie said.

  “Tell me what?”

  “Please. I am slow. Let me say it all without . . . interrupting. Please.”

  “Sorry. Go on.”

  “I had a lot of time to think. About Benjamin. What I saw in him, why I was with him.” The words came out agonizingly slow, but sure. “So many things that he was, I didn’t want. I never would have wanted them, if I hadn’t been caught up by superficial things like how he looked and how much money he had. And so many things that he wasn’t, I needed. I still need them.”

  As she spoke, her fluency was increasing, sentence by sentence. If this were pure therapy, Wes would flip the computer to level five, force her brain to work harder.

  “Benjamin was a shallow, cowardly person,” Meggie continued. “Eric is neither of those things. He is sincere. He is brave. He is loyal. You have no idea how much that means to me now.”

  “He is also developmentally disabled,” Becca said in a quiet voice. “You are not.”

  “I know. I’ve thought about that, too. If I could, I’d do for his brain the same thing you’re doing for mine. But I can’t. But in the end, the things he doesn’t have, I can live without. The things he does have, I want more than anything.”

  “Eric and I are twins,” Wes said. “When I was being born, he was stuck inside, with an umbilical cord wrapped around his neck. Suffocating.”

  “I understand.”

  “That’s my reality. That’s the part that you need to accept on faith. My health is built on my brother’s brain damage. And I will never stop protecting him.”

  Becca squeezed his hand.

  “But you sent him to help me,” Meggie said. “Even though it was dangerous.”

  “That’s true, I did.”

  “There are some things that are worth the risk.”

  Was she right? It was against everything in Wes’s nature to trust his brother to someone else. And could a relati
onship like this even work?

  “I have so many questions,” he said. “What about physically?”

  “My nerves aren’t dead. I can still feel.”

  “Yes, but you can’t move. What are you going to do to reciprocate?”

  “I don’t know. We’ll work that out. Maybe nothing will ever happen—but that’s not your choice to make.”

  “Do you even like the same things he does?”

  “Yes. Cheesy musicals, Disney movies, classic characters like Robin Hood and Sherlock Holmes. Yes, I do. That’s not all I like, but what couple shares everything?”

  “And you find him physically attractive?”

  “Is that so hard to believe? Tell him, Becca.”

  Becca smiled. “He looks like you, Wes. So yeah, he’s kind of cute.”

  “I don’t know,” Wes said. “I still can’t wrap my mind around it.”

  Meggie slowed down again. “All I’m asking is that you give me a chance.”

  Wes looked at Becca. “And you think . . . what?”

  His wife’s eyes were watery. “I hope this isn’t pregnancy hormones, but . . . I say they go for it.”

  “May I see him?” Meggie asked.

  Wes got up without answering. He walked into the hallway, then to the front room. Walter and Davis were talking about a new patient advocacy law in the Netherlands and how it might be a precedent for changes in the United States. He ignored them and walked to the home theater.

  Eric was in there, with a controller in hand. Watson and Holmes stood over the dead body of a werewolf mid-transition. But his Victorian-garbed heroes stood still, waiting for instructions. Eric stared to the side, distracted by something. His brow furrowed and Wes could imagine the engine sputtering in there. Figuring things out in his own, deliberate way.

  What a team they made. Twenty employees, but the core was here in this house. One pregnant woman, two paralyzed people, and adding a third. Eric, with all his cognitive disabilities. God knew Wes had plenty of his own flaws and weaknesses. Yet here they were, saving lives, one at a time.

  “Werewolves? This is even goofier than the zombie game. Your brain is going to rot out.”

  Eric turned, face brightening. “Wussy! Come play with me. You can be Watson. He has a Gatling gun that shoots silver bullets. It’s awesome.”

  “Actually, I came in to tell you that someone wants to see you.”

  “Who is it, is it Dad? Someone from the group home? One of my friends?”

  “No, Ruk. It’s your pretty lady. She’s in the language lab and asked if you would come in. She has something important to ask you.”

  “Meggie!”

  Eric sprang to his feet, almost knocked Wes over as he brushed past, then ran down the hallway to the language lab. He burst in the door.

  “Hi!”

  “Hi, Eric,” came the voice from the computer. “Please sit down.”

  Then Becca stepped into the hallway and shut the door behind her. The voices cut out. She wrapped her arms around Wes’s neck and kissed him.

  “You did good,” she said.

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “I am. Now, I’m going upstairs to lie down in the guest bedroom. You can come up with me, if you’d like.”

  “Are you feeling sick?”

  “Actually, I may or may not have just felt a contraction.”

  He stared. “But you’re only thirty-seven weeks.”

  “Wes,” she said, “haven’t you figured it out yet? Life doesn’t operate on a schedule.”

  And with that, she rounded the corner and her footsteps trudged up the stairs. Wes ran after her.

  From the Author

  Thank you for reading The Devil’s Cauldron. Visit my web page to sign up for my new releases list and receive a free copy of my Righteous novella, Trial by Fury.

  The Devil’s Deep Series

  Book #1 – The Devil’s Deep

  Book #2 – The Devil’s Peak

  Book #3 – The Devil’s Cauldron

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  Crazy Days in Big Lake

  Nick Russell

  Copyright 2012 © By Nick Russell

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing by the publisher.

  Nick Russell

  1400 Colorado Street C-16

  Boulder City, NV 89005

  E-mail Editor@gypsyjournal.net

  Also By Nick Russell

  Fiction

  Big Lake

  Big Lake Lynching

  Crazy Days In Big Lake

  Big Lake Blizzard

  Dog’s Run

  Nonfiction

  Highway History and Back Road Mystery

  Highway History and Back Road Mystery II

  Meandering Down The Highway; A Year On The Road With Fulltime RVers

  The Frugal RVer

  Work Your Way Across The USA; You Can Travel And Earn A Living Too!

  The Gun Shop Manual

  Overlooked Florida

  Overlooked Arizona

  The Step-By-Step Guide To Self-Publishing For Profit

  Keep up with Nick Russell’s latest books at NickRussellBooks.com

  Prologue

  The trouble began when Arnold Foster’s Saint Bernard decided that Harley Willits' front yard was the perfect place to do his morning business. Harley had tried everything to keep the trespassing canine off of his lawn; he had yelled at the dog to scare it away, thrown a rock at it, even shot the dog in the rear end with a BB gun on occasion, all of it with no success. Every morning when Harley stepped out onto his front porch to enjoy a cup of coffee as he watched the squirrels scampering in the limbs of the huge old Ponderosa pine that sheltered his property, he was greeted with the disgusting sight of a steaming pile of dog crap.

  When Harley complained to his neighbor, Arnold had simply shrugged his shoulders and said “Don’t get so worked up. It’s biodegradable. It’ll wash away the first time it rains.”

  Of course, even in Arizona’s high country along the Mogollon Rim, there were a lot more days with sunshine than with rain, and Harley was further angered by Arnold’s reaction to his complaints about the dog’s bad manners.

  On any other day, Harley may well have just grumbled and cleaned up the mess, but not that Saturday morning. He had been up most of the night before with a toothache, and as she was pouring their morning coffee, he and Sylvia had another argument when she began to nag him yet again to go see Dr. Vega and get the darned tooth pulled.

  Harley hated dentists, and especially hated Dr. Vega, who was both a Mexican and had chided him on his one and only visit because he had not brushed his teeth after lunch. Harley was a busy man and he didn't have time to carry a toothbrush with him and stop for such oral maintenance after every meal. And besides, who needed to be lectured by some foreigner half his age just because he had a diploma hanging on the wall?

  So when Harley stepped out onto his porch and saw the dog, whose name was Freckles, squatting next to his rose bush, it was the last straw. “Get out of here,” Harley shouted, but Freckles ignored him and finished his business, then sniffed at a tree trunk before wandering back home.

  Harley went to his shed, got a shovel, scooped up the offending mess and stalked across the yard to his neighbor’s house. He walked up to Arnold’s brand new, three day old white Chevrolet pickup and emptied the shovel right on top of the hood.

  “What are you doing? Are you crazy?” shouted Arnold as he burst out through his front door.

  “Don’t get so worked up,” Harley told him, repeating his own words to him. “It’s biodegradable. It’ll wash away the first time it rains.”

  Chapter 1

  Sheriff Jim Weber pulled his personal vehicle, a customized 1958 Chevrolet pickup truck, up to the rear of the building a
nd looked around carefully before he got out. Seeing no one, he quickly walked the few steps to the back door and knocked. When the woman opened it, he glanced around one more time before stepping inside, pulling the door closed behind him.

  “Really Jimmy, there’s no need for all this secretiveness,” the woman said, “nobody knows you're here, so just relax.”

  “I’m trying,” Weber told her. “I just can't. It just doesn't feel right to me.”

  “Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy. What am I going to do with you? It's okay, this is our little secret. And besides, it’s nobody's business anyway.”

  “I know,” Weber said, “but I just can't get past the idea of...”

  The woman laid a hand on his arm and said, “You have absolutely nothing to be ashamed of, Jimmy. You're not the first man, or woman, who's come to me this way.” With her hand still on his arm, she guided him into the next room and said, “Why don’t you make yourself comfortable? Would you like a cup of coffee, or maybe tea?”

  “No thanks,” Weber replied. “I really just want to get this over with.”

  The woman gave him a mock pouty look and said, “Gee, you make a girl feel so cheap! I’m not into quickies, Jimmy.”

  “That's not what I meant,” Weber told her. “I just feel… I don't know how to say it….”

  The woman looked at him and shook her head with a sad smile and asked, “Dirty? Ashamed? Afraid someone's going to find out our little secret? You know, Jimmy, you are such a sweet man. But your head is so screwed up inside.” She placed a hand on his chest and gently eased him down and said, “That's okay, that's what I'm here for. Let's get started.”

  Weber was always unsure of himself and hesitant to take the next step, unsure how to get started. Molly knew this and gave him a moment or two, and when she saw he was still wrestling with himself, she took the initiative by asking him, “Are you sleeping?”

  Weber shrugged his shoulders and said, “I sleep. I just don't sleep well.”

  “How about the nightmares?”

  “They're still there,” he told her.