The Ultimate Mystery Thriller Horror Box Set (7 Mystery Thriller Horror Bestsellers)

by Perkins, Cathy

  Chase stopped. “How long do you think I’ll have to wait?”

  “At least an hour.”

  He shook his head. “That’s a lot of wasted time. I could get a lot done in an hour.”

  “Go wait in your car, and I’ll give him a call. What’s your name?”

  “Chase Bowden. Just tell him I’m here. I’m sure he’ll be….”

  He never finished. A movement inside the house caught his attention; a shadow passing across a window. The form was indistinct. The fedora wasn’t. He started running, dropping the umbrella, which landed upright, catching the rain. He hit the yellow tape and snapped it. His hand reached inside his coat for his Glock, but it wasn’t there.

  “Stop!” The deputy yelled. “Stop now!”

  He glanced over his shoulder and saw both of them chasing him. That was good. They both had guns and apparently didn’t know who he was. The department was big enough that they might have assumed he was from a different precinct. He hit the front door with his stronger shoulder and the frame split from the impact. The door burst open, swinging wildly on its hinges to crash against the wall.

  “The back door!” he screamed to the deputies. “Go to the back door.”

  He ran straight through the house with one of them on his heels. The other one swung away and ran around the side of the house. He was the last one to reach the back yard. Bowden flew through the doorway and sprinted across the yard, as the gray figure disappeared into the woods again.

  He spun to the nearest deputy. “Get a dog out here.”

  He pointed to the second one. “Get on the radio and set up containment.”

  Close. He pounded his fist in his hand. Too close to lose the man again. He spun around and looked at the opening in the woods. The guy knew the area well. Maybe it was another Fonck.

  The first deputy had finished transmitting. “How long for the dog?” Bowden snapped.

  “Thirty minutes.”

  “What about containment?”

  “It’s coming.”

  “Get in your car. Get the lights and siren going and drive west for half a mile then just drive up and down the street. Let’s see if we can get this guy to go to ground until containment arrives.”

  The deputy took off for his car.

  Bowden turned to the other deputy. “Get hold of Detective Cooper. Tell him what’s going on, and that he has a dirty crime scene.”

  The deputy keyed his mike.

  “Not over the air!” Bowden yelled. “You don’t want this information recorded. Use a phone.”

  The deputy left and he was alone, pacing in front of the woods. Waiting and getting soaking wet. He squinted against the rain and looked up at the clouded sky. Gray. What an ugly, lifeless color. It haunted him.

  Who was the man in gray? Why had he come back? Where was he from? Where did he go and how did he travel? Questions without answers. For now.

  The first sirens could be heard in the distance. They were close now. He hoped one of them was a K-9 unit. If he could catch this guy, he could get some answers. He heard cars arriving, but they didn’t come up the driveway. These were the containment units. Ten minutes later more sirens could be heard. He watched the trail impatiently. The cars stopped out front, and a dog barked.

  The dog was a black lab, wearing a green harness with the gold King County emblem and a flashing red light. The handler wore a green jump suit and was accompanied by a deputy. The dog pulled in the harness and whined as it was restrained.

  The handler stopped near Bowden. “Where’s the track.”

  He pointed between two trees. “He went through there. No one followed him past this point.”

  “Did he have a weapon?”

  “Didn’t see one.”

  The handler looked back at the deputy. “Looks like you’re my runner.”

  The deputy nodded and pulled his gun. The handler led the black lab to the spot between the trees and patted the ground. The lab sniffed around. When the handler gave him eight feet of the leash, the lab took off through the trees. The deputy ran fifteen feet behind the K-9 unit. His job was to watch the trail for an ambush, not to watch the dog.

  Chase Bowden walked back to his car and turned on the heat. The windows fogged up and he switched the heat over to defrost. He sat in the Mercedes and listened to the rain thumping on the roof. Forty-five minutes later an unmarked car drove up and parked by the remaining marked unit. The back door opened and the lab jumped out, followed by his handler. They climbed into their own unit and drove away.

  Two minutes later the front door on the unmarked unit opened, and Detective Cooper stepped out. He looked at the broken police line and at the smashed front door. Bowden waited for him to make a decision, and felt satisfied when the detective turned away from the house, sloshed over to the Mercedes, opened the passenger door, and slid in.

  The two men sat in silence for a moment. Cooper spoke first. “My deputies kept telling me you were a cop, but then couldn’t tell me who you were.”

  He waited. Cooper would have to tell him soon, but he already had a good idea.

  “We didn’t get him.” Cooper turned in the seat to face Bowden more directly. “The dog followed the track straight to a stream. Then the track wound through the woods until it came to a clearing.”

  Cooper paused for a while, but Chase wasn’t going to help him. He knew that if he waited long enough, Cooper would keep talking. The impetus was his.

  “This clearing was the same clearing where we found you yesterday. One of the guys drove to that spot and waited, just in case. So I think the dog followed an old track.” He jabbed a finger at Bowden. “Yours.”

  He couldn’t figure it out. Perhaps the dog lost the track at the stream.

  “I’d throw you back in jail if I didn’t have two deputies swearing that they saw a guy in a gray trench coat, running out the back of the house.” Cooper glared at Bowden.

  “Can I have my Glock back?”

  In answer, Cooper shoved the car door open. It sprung back and he had to stop it with his foot. Outside the car, he placed his hand on the roof and leaned back in.

  “You’re still on my list,” he growled and slammed the door.

  Bowden watched the detective stomp up to the house. Cooper paused at the front door and looked at the frame. A moment later he stepped in. He would be checking the crime scene to see if anything had been moved or taken, then reseal everything and bring out the photos that were snapped yesterday to compare the two scenes. It would be easy to see what had been moved, what had been so vitally important to the man in gray.

  Perhaps he had been too hard on the detective, he thought. Now he was locked out of the house again and wouldn’t be able to get back in and look around. The only place that he could check for clues was the clearing where he had parked the other day, so he drove the Mercedes down the driveway and turned out onto the street. The only marked units that were still around sat in front of the house. The others had already left as was usual for them. They handled the initial calls and the detectives followed it up.

  He parked his rental car on the side of the road and walked into the clearing. Tire tracks from several cars could be seen in the tall wet grass. The bigger, double wheels of the tow truck could still be seen from the other day. He made a mental note to call the rental office and let them know where their car had gone.

  He worked his way along the edge of the clearing where the grass faded into the woods. If someone had come into this area today, it would be the best place to find tracks. He bent over, examining the ground as he walked. The rain beat down rhythmically on his back, quickly penetrating his coat and shirt, and soaking his skin. The water ran under his shirt and down around front. It felt much colder on his belly than his back. He wiped the rain from his forehead, and squeezed the water from his hair with his palm.

  The sounds around him stopped, and he paused. The woods are never silent. He realized that it was too quiet. He didn’t know if it was his presence or som
ething else. It slowly dawned on him that it wasn’t his presence that had caused the silence. He had been aware of the woodland sounds and now they were gone.

  The man in gray stepped out of the woods, a scant three feet in front of him and placed a gun between his eyes. A chill ran through him and he reached for the gun that wasn’t there. His fingers grasped his shirt. A seam split as he pulled desperately.

  3

  The gun barrel hovered three inches from Bowden’s forehead. It was an old gun, a Colt .380, but that’s not what caused his knees to start shaking. The pale hand that gripped it and the man that stood behind it, turned his blood to ice.

  “Why are you here?” The voice was oddly hollow, low, and resonating.

  He looked into the cold, gray eyes and saw nothing there. He remembered the way dead people looked, the way their eyes had no depth, no richness or vitality…. This man’s eyes… they scared him.

  “Were you looking for me?”

  He heard the question but it didn’t register in his terror-numbed mind. The gray fedora was pulled down low over the man’s forehead, casting dark shadows over his eyes.

  Forcing himself to break eye contact, he focused on the blue-gray skin that appeared cold and clammy. He took an involuntary step back.

  The gun didn’t waver, but a faint smile flicked across the man’s lips. “Where are you going?”

  Chris took another step backwards, more quickly, and then another. The man in gray lowered the gun and Bowden ran. His heart raced as his legs pumped up and down trying to move him as fast as he wanted to go. His skin crawled, as he expected a bullet in the back. His head buzzed. He felt like he was running in a dream; running but not getting anywhere, as though the danger was always three feet behind, following effortlessly. An icy shiver shook him. His legs faltered as he reached the car.

  He gripped the handle and jerked it open, sliding behind the wheel, and ramming the key into the ignition. The engine roared, and he jammed the lever down into drive as he punched the gas. The Mercedes leapt forward in response. Mud and grass flew from the tires until they hit the pavement.

  Five minutes passed before he glanced at his speed. He was doing 65 on the narrow road that had a posted 35 mile-per-hour speed limit. He eased off the gas pedal and the car settled down. As the car slowed, so did his heart rate. He had never been terrified like that before. Not in the military. Not in law enforcement. Never!

  He reached under his jacket and touched the rip in his shirt. He needed a gun. Now! He swore he’d never be without one again.

  He cursed the cops for taking his Glock. It was a pre-ban Model 17 that held 17 rounds of 9-millimeter ammo. He needed a replacement and he wasn’t going to wait five days.

  He drove into Seattle and parked the rented Mercedes on 1st Ave., then walked up into Pioneer Square. The old red bricks had recently been washed, more recently than a large percentage of the people loitering in the area.

  He stepped into a bistro. “Coffee.”

  The barista crinkled her brows. “Drip?”

  “I don’t care what you call it. Just make it hot and black.” The place reeked of smoke and body odor. Several transients sat just inside the door with brown paper cups in their hands.

  “You’re not from around here, are you?” She smiled, resting her hands on the counter and leaning towards him.

  He looked at the girl, who kept smiling at him. The hair on one side of her head had been shaved off. The hair left on top had been bleached blond and fell like a mop, strands going in every direction. Her look was enhanced by a ring in her nose, several tattoos on her forearms, and a crooked smile. But she was working.

  “So, do you want the house blend?” she asked, pushing away from the counter.

  He relaxed a little and forced a return smile. “Whatever.”

  “Yeah,” the girl nodded knowingly. “You’re not from around here.” She pulled a cup off the stack and said, “People around here know their coffee.” She filled the cup and set it on the counter in front of him.

  He decided she was seventeen. He pulled out his wallet and set a dollar on the counter.

  The girl smiled at him. “That doesn’t even cover the coffee.” She pointed at the sign over her head.

  He pulled five from his wallet and set it on top of the one, noticing that the barista eyed the thickness of the bills in his wallet.

  The girl leaned over the counter, her blouse falling open to expose an obscene tattoo on her breasts. “Now, can I help you with something else?”

  Blowing on his coffee, he looked up at the girl. She watched him expectantly, a flirtatious grin on her face as she nodded her head.

  “Is there somewhere…”

  “Marco!” she shouted. “I’m taking a break!”

  Another young kid poked his pimply head out of a room. He grinned and sauntered up behind the counter as the girl walked around a corner, motioning for Chase to follow her. She opened a closet door and waited for him to step in.

  “Lady’s first,” he said.

  “Lady? Like hell.” She stepped into the closet and he shut the door behind them.

  The room had an open space of 3 by 5 feet. The girl slapped a wall switch and the single sixty-watt bulb shut off. A nightlight plugged into an outlet provided a little glow.

  “Twenty for a blow job, a hundred for the real deal.” Her hand reached downward and he caught it.

  “Slow down.”

  “I aint got all day.”

  “I’ll give you fifty…”

  “Forget it!” she said, as she jerked her hand free of his grasp.

  “… for some information.”

  The girl stopped. “What? What kind of information?”

  “I need a gun, and I can’t wait five days for it.”

  She smiled and held out her hand, palm up. “I can help you with that.”

  He set his coffee cup in her hand and dug out his wallet. He removed a fifty and put the wallet away.

  He took his cup back, and held out the money. “I don’t want a cheap gun.”

  She snatched the fifty from his fingers and pushed by him, opening the door. “Talk to Slash. Come on. I’ll point him out.”

  Marco’s eyes widened. “Back already?”

  She flashed him the fifty, and Marco grinned. She stuffed the bill into her pocket and stepped behind the counter. “He’s the prick in the orange hat by the pay phone.”

  Chase picked him out instantly. “Thanks for the drip,” he said, raising the cup in a salute as he stepped out the door.

  Outside Slash leaned against the wall next to the phone, smoking a joint. He caught Bowden’s gaze, then glanced up and down the street.

  He knew what Slash was thinking. Was this a cop? He wondered how he would respond. Slash took one last drag on his joint and dropped it. He put his toe on the evidence and ground it out of existence. He smiled.

  Slash opened the conversation. “You aint jacked me before. What do you want?”

  “I’m not a cop, Slash.” He could tell that the guy didn’t believe him. “I need a piece. A clean one.”

  Slash laughed. “Right.”

  He adjusted his jacket, and Bowden knew he was carrying.

  “And not some piece of junk.”

  Slash looked at him, still grinning. His teeth were crooked and stained brown, almost matching the color of his skin. Slash pulled on his orange cap.

  It was meant to be nonchalant but Bowden recognized it as a signal. He glanced around. People were moving away. So, Slash had decided that he was a cop. Okay, he thought, we can play it that way.

  Chase stepped beside Slash and grabbed his arm. He locked Slash’s wrist back and bent his elbow, swinging the arm behind the dealer’s back. Slash slid up on his toes and Bowden reached under the black Raiders’ jacket and pulled the gun free, sliding it into his own waistband with the same movement.

  He pressed Slash against the wall. “You know the drill.”

  “Up yours!”

  “You g
ot a permit to carry this?”

  “Screw you!”

  “I didn’t think so, and you’re a convicted felon, I believe.”

  Slash only responded by turning his head away.

  “So what will I find when I run it?”

  “Nothing! It’s clean, man.”

  Bowden was glad to hear that, but he sighed. “I don’t want to take you in, Slash. The jail is full enough with pukes like you. If I run this, and find it’s hot, I’ll hook you.”

  “It’s clean, man. Honest.”

  He released his grip on Slash’s wrist. “Your friends are going to want to know what’s up. You just tell them I wanted info, but if I see you out here with another piece, I’ll take it from you, too. I know you’re dealing guns, and I’m going to hurt you.”

  His threat wasn’t physical, and Slash knew it. He was going to have to relocate his business. Slash pounded on the wall with his fist, and was still cussing as Bowden rounded the corner and climbed into the Mercedes.

  The bulge in his waistband was comforting and he tried to guess the model just by the feel of it. He thought it was a Glock, but didn’t dream he could be so lucky. He lifted his jacket and glanced down. It was a Glock Model 21; a .45 caliber semi-auto with a ten round magazine.

  He grinned. His luck was getting better.

  Pulling out into traffic, he drove back to his room in the Sheraton, where he bolted the door behind him. He took the Glock out of his waistband and checked the magazine. It was fully loaded. It even fit into his shoulder holster. Strapping it on, he felt much more secure.

  He dropped onto the bed and dialed his employer.

  The phone was answered on the second ring. “Hello?”

  “Hi. It’s Chase Bowden.”

  “I’ve been trying to reach you,” Vincent said.

  “Yeah. The cops took my cell phone when they impounded the car. I won’t be too accessible until I get another one.”

  “Do you know how Adam died?”

  “He was stabbed in the back.”

  A moment of silence followed the revelation. “Any...um, ideas as to who might have killed him?”

  He had a couple of ideas, but didn’t want to disseminate the information. “Who’s Andre Fonck?”