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

by Perkins, Cathy

  “Andre? Is he involved?”

  Bowden lay on his back, his head on the pillow. This was the way to conduct an interview. Much better than standing in the pouring rain. “Maybe. Andre’s car was at the house.”

  “Yes. He lives over in that area, somewhere.”

  Chase didn’t say any more while he waited for Vincent to answer his question.

  “He’s another nephew.”

  “Was he Adam’s brother?”

  “No. My dad had three boys and one girl. My sister and her family are now living in that old house. Adam and Andre were cousins.”

  “Why would they be after the painting?”

  There was another long silence, then Fonck asked, “Do you have the painting?”

  “Someone beat me to it. Why is it so important? You told me your dad painted it himself.”

  “He did. He did.” Another break occurred where no one spoke.

  Bowden pushed the issue. “You told me the painting was your inheritance.”

  “It is. My sister got the house and the sixty acres that it sits on. My dad left the painting to my brothers and me. I’m the only one still alive.”

  “Then why are your nephews after it?”

  “The executer of my father’s will said that my father ‘placed great value in the painting.’ I thought it referred to sentimental value until the rest of the will had been divided up.” Fonck cleared his throat. “The painting was the only thing my father left me, which indicated that it really did have great value. For some reason, that painting is worth a lot of money. If the value isn’t in the painting itself, then the value has to be in the subject matter.”

  “Which is what?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t seen it.”

  Bowden sighed. “Do you think there’s something behind the painting?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you know someone who wears a gray coat and fedora, who might be in this area?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know anyone else that might have a reason to steal the painting?”

  “Mister Bowden, I have eight… well, seven nephews now, and two sons of my own. I haven’t seen or heard from any of them in four or five years. I think people are coming to the same conclusion. Dad had a lot more money than anyone imagined.”

  Setting the phone on its cradle, he sat up on the bed, and looked at his watch. It was almost 5 p.m. He hadn’t eaten yet and needed some warmer clothes. He made a quick stop at REI for outdoor gear, then grabbed a sandwich, which he ate in the car. Traffic out to Issaquah at this time of day was horrendous, taking more than thirty minutes just to get across the bridge, and almost an hour to get past the plateau.

  Darkness had settled in by the time he reached the house, and he parked east of it this time. He pulled on a pair of oilskin pants over the ones he already wore. The label claimed that they were black and waterproof. They were actually a charcoal gray and he hoped the second part of the label would be more accurate. He also put on a thick pair of wool socks and heavily insulated boots. He laced them up and climbed out of the car.

  The parka that he took out of the back seat also claimed waterproof status and boasted a comfort level to -30 degrees. This was also black because of the nighttime vigilance that he planned to keep, as he didn’t want to be seen. He pulled the fur-lined hood over his head and thrust his hands into heavy gloves. This time he’d be ready for anything.

  Shutting the car door, he turned towards the house.

  The heavy wind tore the hood from his head, as the rain smashed against his face. He reached up and pulled the hood down again, jerking on the strings near his neck to hold it in place. Red and gold maple leaves sailed past him in a semi-horizontal decent to the soggy earth.

  When he stepped into the woods, the trunks of the trees reduced the force of the wind. Water fell in large drops from the higher branches where it had collected. These mixed with the rain to pound on him.

  Chase looked at his parka. Water beaded up on the surface. He smiled. Maybe he would stay dry this time.

  After pushing his way through the trees and brush, he located a light from the house which he now knew belonged to Vincent Fonck’s sister, Kay Miller, and her husband Barry. Vincent couldn’t remember if Kay’s daughter still lived with them or if she had moved out, but Bowden had seen her several times during the three days that he had watched the house.

  The light grew brighter as he approached, and he soon found himself at the edge of the woods. He stayed five or six feet back in the tree line to help blend in, although he thought that no one would be able to see him even if they did look outside. It was just too dark.

  Working his way around to the front, Bowden confirmed what he thought would be the case—the police had left. The front door was nailed into place. At least it was closed. He didn’t know if it would open or not. He sat outside in the dark, watching for any movement inside, hoping that the family hadn’t returned.

  An upstairs light flicked on and his attention darted to it. He watched as a slim female in her early twenties walked by the window. He assumed it was Vincent’s niece, Tara. He looked around for a better position, where he could view the room. He located a spot about fifteen feet away and quietly moved to it. Another window lit up as Tara entered another room. He thought it must be a bathroom window, judging by how small it was and the fact that it seemed to be connected to Tara’s room.

  Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulled out his binoculars. He had come out in the hopes of getting back into the house, or maybe running into the man in gray. The chances of either one of those things happening now that the Millers were home, looked bleak.

  He focused on the window when Tara walked past again. He just caught a glimpse before she disappeared into the bathroom. He waited quietly, holding the binoculars in his hand, and wondering if he should try to get into the house once everyone had gone to sleep. He decided it wasn’t worth the risk.

  The bathroom light went off and he raised the binoculars. Tara wore a light blue bathrobe, and held herself with her arms wrapped tightly around her. She glanced out the window and he shrank back, then shook his head as he felt a tinge of guilt that made him look away. She really wasn’t his business.

  It wasn’t even eight p.m. He wondered if he should wait around and see if the guy in gray showed up, or if he should check on Andre Fonck, the owner of the red Corvette.

  The temperature dropped a couple of degrees, and the wind picked up. Rain fell in sheets, pounding down on him. He turned and started for his car, his decision made. He’d check on Andre. He sloshed through the puddles on the ground, his back bent against the driving force of the wind and rain. Someone stood near his car, leaning over and looking in the window. The man straightened and turned, allowing Chase to see the gray fedora.

  4

  Pounding rapidly, Bowden’s heart jumped into his throat and hung on, restricting his breathing. “Stay right there!” he yelled as best he could.

  The man continued to turn towards him. Bowden’s training screamed at him, Watch the hands! They were hidden in the man’s pockets.

  Bowden flung the glove off his right hand and reached beneath his coat. He closed his fingers around the butt of the Glock and jerked it free. The gun came out—a lethal deterrent—chest high, the barrel swinging up to cover the man next to the Mercedes.

  He lined up his sights. “Take your hands out of your pockets. Slowly!”

  The man eased his hands from his pockets, his fingers extended to show that they were empty. He looked much better now. His skin held a healthy, pinkish color, and his eyes were livelier.

  Bowden took two cautious steps forward. “Who are you?”

  “A lost soul,” the stranger responded, his voice clear and strong.

  Chase didn’t like playing games. He raised the gun so that it pointed menacingly at the man’s head. The man smiled back, his expression daring him to shoot.

  “What’s your name?” he shouted.

>   “Sam Riley.”

  It wasn’t a Fonck family name and Bowden didn’t believe him. He had a gut feeling this character was linked to the murder, and he had learned not to ignore those feelings.

  “Show me some I.D.”

  The skin around Riley’s eyes crinkled, and he shook his head.

  “Come on. The I.D.” He clamped his teeth together, trying to control his anger.

  Riley took a step towards him, forcing him to make a decision. Shoot or fight. He knew that Riley had been armed earlier. This time he looked younger; late twenties.

  He hesitated. Riley took another step closer.

  “Stop!” he yelled, knowing it wouldn’t do any good. He could see the resolve in Riley’s eyes. He waggled the Glock slightly to emphasize his order.

  “What are you doing out here?” Riley demanded, still walking forward.

  “Stop right there!” he screamed, his voice cracking, his heart rate jumping. Too close—danger!

  Riley stopped. “Okay. I’m stopping. Answer the question.”

  “I’m trying to solve a murder.”

  Riley smiled. Nodded, as if it made sense. “The one in the house? Adam Fonck?”

  Bowden nodded, wondering if he had the killer in his sights. He swallowed hard realizing that Riley had turned the conversation around, becoming the one asking the questions. He felt a sudden respect for the man standing at the wrong end of the gun.

  “I had you down for that,” Riley said.

  “So did the police.” He was fine with the conversation, somewhere in it he would find a way to take the lead again.

  Riley put his hands on his hips. “You chased me off as I arrived that afternoon. I didn’t know Adam was dead until I came back later. So what happened?”

  “I found him dead. I thought you killed him.”

  Riley smiled. “I didn’t kill him.”

  He grinned back at him, feeling more confident now that Riley was offering a defense. “And I suppose you can prove it?”

  Riley nodded. “Proving that is easy,” and he reached into his pocket.

  Bowden’s finger slid over the trigger. “Stop!”

  As Riley’s hand came free, Bowden could see that he held his gun. Bowden fired. The forty-five slug passed through Riley’s body and shattered the Mercedes’ driver’s window as it entered, and the passenger window as it exited.

  Riley didn’t flinch. His gun came up and he leveled it as Bowden pulled the trigger a second time, firing at center mass. The bullet sailed through Riley and smashed out two more windows of the car. Bowden’s mouth fell open, his eyes wide. He couldn’t believe he had missed, that the rounds had no effect on a man standing ten feet from him.

  His mouth went dry as Riley calmly leveled his gun. He wouldn’t go down that way. He squeezed off half a dozen rounds from his Glock before flame spat from the blue .380, the noise rolling all together in a thunderous explosion.

  All his muscles tightened, anticipating impact and the pain. But there was nothing. He stared. He knew what it was like to be shot. He’d felt it before, the fire that passes through your body.

  There was no fire. Riley had missed. He looked up. Riley stood just three feet from him, placed the barrel an inch from his forehead and pulled the trigger. He heard the thunder of another round. The sound, inches from his ears, was deafening.

  He shook his head, trying to get the ringing to stop. He clamped his left hand over his ear, tilted his head sideways, then stopped. His ears shouldn’t be ringing. He should be dead.

  He lifted his hand to his face, his fingers probing for the hole, searching for blood. There had to be something. Somewhere.

  Nearly a dozen rounds fired at less than ten feet, the last few at point blank range? They all couldn’t have missed. Maybe he was in shock. No pain. No blood? Nothing had happened to him. It wasn’t possible.

  “You see?” Riley asked, bitterness in his voice. “I didn’t kill Adam. I can’t. And you can’t kill me.”

  He stared at the man in front of him. Blanks would explain why he himself hadn’t been hit, but there was no explanation for the fact that Riley was still on his feet. Eight rounds to center mass from a .45? He couldn’t miss. Riley should be down.

  He reached out a shaking hand, raised it to Riley’s face and stretched out his finger. He stopped, afraid to touch the man. Afraid he might not touch anything. He swallowed, closed his finger into his hand making a fist and brought it down to his side. He couldn’t believe the explanation forming in his mind.

  “A… a…” Bowden couldn’t say it. He didn’t believe it. His voice was as shaky as his hand. He looked at the Glock and then back at Riley. He lifted the gun. It felt very heavy. He held it an inch from Riley’s forehead.

  Riley shrugged.

  Bowden pulled the trigger. The gun bucked in his hand and a deafening explosion assaulted his ears. Riley smiled back at him.

  He shook his head and looked at his gun.

  “There’s nothing wrong with your gun. Look at your car.” The Mercedes was riddled with holes and every window shattered.

  Bowden nodded, his cheeks puffing out as he filled them with air. He forced that air out through his lips. “I know.” He turned and walked to the edge of the woods, paused, looked over his shoulder, and returned to stand in front of Riley. He stared at him for several seconds, fumbling with the useless Glock as he forced it back into the holster.

  Riley leaned forward, a concerned look on his face. “You okay?”

  “You, uh...”

  “You’re whiter than I am.”

  Bowden rubbed his chin. “Are you a...”

  Riley finished his sentence for him. “Ghost? Yeah. That’s me.”

  Chase blinked his eyes. His shoulders slumped, his chin dropped. “I don’t believe....” He glanced at the dead man standing in front of him. “I don’t get it.”

  “What?”

  Bowden scratched his head under his hood. “It’s not possible.”

  Riley grinned. “I’m here, aren’t I? Have a little faith.”

  “It was you I chased through the woods?”

  “Yes.”

  “That would explain it. Why the dog didn’t get a scent on you.”

  Riley nodded his head.

  Bowden shook his head in disbelief. He looked at the demolished Mercedes and laughed, trying to ease his tension. It was the only thing he could think of doing and it didn’t help. Even his knees were shaking.

  “So… what are you doing...” Bowden waved his hands at the woods, “out here?”

  Riley sighed. “I’ve been trying to solve a murder.”

  “Adam Fonck’s?”

  “No,” Riley said, removing his fedora. “Mine.”

  Bowden looked at the bullet hole in Riley’s forehead. It couldn’t be real. He leaned closer, looking hard. But it was real. He’d seen enough of them to know. He shivered.

  “Sorry about all this,” Riley said, sweeping his hand across the Mercedes and shrugging. “I just wasn’t sure what it would take to convince you.”

  Bowden nodded and pursed his lips, struggling to assimilate all the information. “You uh… got shot in the forehead. How come you didn’t see who did it?”

  “I was ambushed. Never saw the person. He was in hiding and used a rifle.”

  “Something small,” Bowden stated, “like a twenty-two long.”

  “Something like that.”

  Chase pulled on his discarded glove, conscious of every movement he made. He had to mentally force his body to respond to his mind. It made his motions awkward, like a bad actor in a ‘B’ movie. He swallowed, forcing the saliva down with tight muscles that didn’t want to respond. “Where’d it happen?”

  Riley pointed at the house. “Right out there. Seventy years ago.”

  Bowden rubbed his chin, intrigued. “Same family?”

  “Yes. Kay Miller’s grandfather lived here then. He had a wife and three kids. The oldest looked a lot like Tara.”

  “But
you weren’t part of the family?”

  “No.”

  Bowden wondered how far away from civilization this house had been seventy years ago. How big was Issaquah? Was it even there? “Then why were you killed? What were you doing out here?”

  “Investigating a fraud case involving Kay’s grandfather.”

  He straightened his glove while he took a moment to think. “It sounds like the grandfather had a motive.”

  “He did, but he didn’t kill me. That’s why I’m stumped.”

  “For seventy years?”

  Riley grinned and shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t have any new information. I just keep rehashing the same stuff over and over and I never get a different perspective.”

  He glanced up at the rain. The wind and cold, moist air was making his nose run. He sniffed. “It must be frustrating.”

  “It’s a little hard on the self esteem.”

  An idea started to form in his mind, slowly taking shape as he spoke. “So you are very familiar with the house and the family?”

  Riley grinned. “You could say that. I spent seventy years in that house.”

  “What about the painting that Kay’s father did? Are you familiar with that?”

  “I looked at it every night as he worked on it. It was a very detailed landscape scene.”

  “Landscape?”

  “A shoreline. Like how it would look to someone from a boat.”

  That wasn’t what Bowden expected. How could someone paint clues into a landscape scene? It would be impossible to give directions. A town, maybe. Words on buildings and numbers on clocks could provide clues. He needed to see the painting. Maybe an article or object painted in it had great value.

  “Do you know who took the painting?” he asked.

  Riley shook his head. “You think the murderer took it?”

  “Possibly. Look… I’ve got to talk with Andre Fonck.”

  He walked over to his car and opened the door. He brushed the glass off the driver’s seat with his hand. Rain blew through the open windows soaking everything inside.

  “Are you going now?” Riley asked.

  “Yeah. I’d better. I can’t get into the house.”