J.A. Konrath / Jack Kilborn Trilogy - Three Scary Thriller Novels (Origin, The List, Haunted House)

by J. A. Konrath

  “Congrats.”

  “But this isn’t about me. Can I get you some coffee? Something stronger?”

  “I’m tired. I’d like to get some sleep. Busy day tomorrow. Got those contracts to sign.”

  “Dear, I know you’re joking. You can’t go back to work after a shock like this.”

  “Well I can’t stay at your place forever, peeking through the blinds.”

  “So brave.” Marty brushed the bangs off of her forehead. “Would you like me to call the hospital again, see how Max is doing?”

  “I’m sure his condition hasn’t changed since twenty minutes ago. You can’t get more stable than stable.”

  “It’s so heroic that he came back to your place.”

  Joan kept her thoughts to herself on that one. She felt bad for Max, but any affection she may have had for him disappeared when he deemed Carmichael’s more important than she was.

  “I’ll get your room ready. Extra towels are in the bathroom closet if you want a shower.”

  “I think I’d like that drink, actually.”

  “Vodka okay? It’s imported. Super-premium, supposedly filtered five times.”

  “Sounds great, Marty. Thanks.”

  “Be back in two shakes.”

  Joan found her way to the couch and plopped down, displacing an unhappy Siamese cat. It arched its back and hissed before stalking off.

  “Right back atcha.”

  She noted the time on the entertainment stand—Marty was so meticulous he actually set his DVD clock. Coming up on one in the morning. It felt so much later. Joan kicked off her running shoes, the same pair she’d worn to the police station on the first trip. Curling her legs up under her, she found herself staring at the bottom of her left heel.

  Number 3. Her parents had never given her a straight answer about the tattoo. When she was younger, they told her things like You’re the third angel that came out of heaven or I love you has three words, and we wanted you to always remember that.

  Joan knew she was adopted from the moment she could talk. Her parents began their family late in life; her father had been career Army and was always flitting from one part of the world to another. When he finally settled down, he and his wife were already in their late forties.

  Losing them had been unbearable. Mom from heart disease, and Dad from a broken heart, missing Mom so much. Joan so much wanted to call them right now, have them tell her it would all be okay.

  But would it be okay? The psycho who attacked her knew about the tattoo. It seemed somehow tied in with the reason he wanted to kill her. Someone wants me dead, Joan thought. She shivered. There was something going on here that was beyond her understanding, and she didn’t know who to turn to for help. The police didn’t even file a report for the second attack—Joan watched as the detective in charge tagged it onto the end of the first one. Rather than offer to escort her home, they suggested she spend the night elsewhere. So much for protecting and serving.

  “What would you prefer, hon, cranberry or OJ?”

  Marty approached with a cocktail tray, complete with a small silver ice bucket and tongs. He was so cute, Marty.

  “Just ice. Thanks.”

  Marty plunked some cubes into a rocks glass and poured her a healthy shot of vodka. Joan gulped it down like water. The burn made her stomach clench, but she held it down.

  “Hit you again, Miss?”

  “Please.”

  After he filled her glass, she patted the cushion next to her and Marty sat down.

  “Is that the tattoo you were talking about? What is it, the golden arches?”

  “It’s a 3.”

  “How mysterious. What does it mean?”

  Joan took a small sip of vodka. “I have no idea. I’ve had it since I was a baby.”

  “You know, I worked with a man who had a tattoo just like that. Not a three, though. I think he was number four.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No. Same size, same blue color. We had a company party at the beach and I noticed and asked him about it. He didn’t know where it came from either.”

  “Who was he?”

  “He wrote ad copy at that agency in Santa Monica that you lured me away from. Gosh, this was years ago. What was his name? Began with a B. Bob, Brian, Buster, Bill… Bill. Bill Masterton. God, I’m so happy I’m out of the advertising biz. It’s so cutthroat.”

  She rolled her eyes. “And the movie business isn’t cutthroat?”

  “Of course it is, but at least we pretend to be nice to one another.”

  Joan took another sip of vodka. “Do you think he still works there?”

  “Why? Do he think he might be your long lost brother or something? How’s that for a movie of the week—four children, separated at birth, each with a number to identify them, and an intrepid mother’s search to track them down. I bet Lifetime would lap it up.”

  “What was the agency?”

  “Hmm? Oh, Chalmers/Sloan. Kind of an eclectic client list. They do a lot of print stuff, not too much TV work.”

  Joan finished the drink and mulled it over. Another person with a number tattoo. It could mean nothing, or it could mean a lot. She’d have to check the guy out.

  A yawn escaped her mouth, and the alcohol was taking the edge off of her paranoia.

  “Dear, you’re exhausted. Let’s get you to bed.”

  Silently, Joan followed him down the hall and to the guest bedroom. Marty had turned down the blankets and left a large white T-shirt on the pillow.

  “There’s a new toothbrush on the sink. I’m one room over if you need anything.”

  “Thanks, Marty.” She gave him one more hug. “Good night.”

  “Sweet dreams, hon.”

  She closed the door and undressed. The T-shirt had a Harley Davidson logo on it and smelled like fabric softener. She put it on and slipped into the cool, inviting bed, too tired to take her make-up off.

  Sleep came fast and hard.

  Joan jolted herself awake sometime the next morning.

  She’d had a nightmare, a reoccurring one that went back to her childhood. In it, she was being chased by someone or something. She could never see its face. The closer it got, the harder it became to run—her legs got heavy, and her feet stuck to the ground, and it seemed like she was moving in slow motion. Joan would try harder and harder to get away, but no matter how much she strained the thing would always get her. That was when she’d wake up, often gasping for air.

  This time it was worse than usual. When the thing caught her, it began to drag her to a large, pointed stake buried in the ground.

  “Ass or crotch?”

  She bolted upright in bed, her heart banging away, and tried to remember where she was. The sun was peeking through the blinds, and a clock radio she’d never seen before told her it was a little past eight.

  Marty’s place. Joan relaxed, leaning back and wiping the crust out of her eyes. She got out of bed and padded over to the bathroom. The mirror confirmed her fears. She looked like hell. Her eyes were red and baggy, her face was drawn, her hair resembled a dead plant.

  Joan showered, brushed her teeth twice, found and used some Visine, and went back to the bedroom to change. Marty had already made the bed and laid her clothes out for her. There was also a big, foamy cup of cappuccino on the nightstand.

  She didn’t want to put on the same outfit again—it reminded her of yesterday. But she didn’t have a choice. When finished, she checked her reflection in a framed Nagel print. Still haggard, but once she put her make-up on she might be able to fake being attractive. Joan took her coffee and met Marty in the kitchen.

  “Good morning, sunshine. You look great.”

  “You’re an excellent liar, Marty. Thank you.”

  “Were you up for breakfast? Croissant? Biscotti? Energy Drink?”

  “The cappuccino is enough.”

  “If you want to change, I can drop by your place and pick something up.”

  “If you could take me
there, that would be great.”

  “Are you sure you want to go back so soon?”

  “Got to go sometime. If we hurry, we can just make rush hour traffic.”

  “You’re the boss.”

  Marty owned a Corvette, which was a total waste because he drove like an old lady; always under the speed limit, slowing down for stale green lights in case they turned yellow, taking forever to merge. It normally made Joan nuts, but almost being murdered gave a person more patience for the little things.

  “Here we are.” Marty pulled into her driveway and parked. “You ready?”

  Joan answered by getting out of the car and heading towards the front door. There were dark brown stains in the doorway. Blood. Max’s blood. She pushed past it. Marty followed her in, eyes darting this way and that, obviously uncomfortable.

  “I’ll need the cleaning service to come by, take care of this blood. I’d also like the bathroom cleaned and the Jacuzzi drained. The phone needs to be fixed—I think the line was cut. And get some quotes on alarm systems. While you’re at it, call up Stevensen Burglary and tell them their product stinks and I demand a refund. Also tell them to kiss my ass.”

  Marty grinned. “There’s the tiger I know and love.” He took out a pocket tape recorder and repeated her instructions.

  Joan went into the bedroom and shed her outfit. She tossed it in the garbage. A shame, but she would never wear it again, with the memories attached. She stared momentarily at her wardrobe and went with her favorite power suit—a Claiborne red blazer with wide shoulders and a matching skirt. A white silk blouse and some red pumps rounded out the ensemble. After checking herself in the bedroom mirror, she switched from heels to flats. The pumps looked better, but you can’t move fast in heels.

  Marty had drawn the blinds over the patio doors, his tan complexion somewhat pale. He must have seen her dog. Poor Schnapps. She’d been so consumed with her own safety, she hadn’t had time to mourn the death of her furry pal. She felt the tears well up, but refused to let them fall.

  “Call… call someone to have those stakes removed.”

  “Should I arrange for… services?”

  “Have him cremated. Pick out a nice urn. I didn’t have him long, but he was a good dog.”

  The tears fell anyway. Joan went to the bathroom and forced composure. It took a few minutes, but she managed to get her breathing under control. Then she did the two minute makeover; a little foundation, a touch of eyeliner and mascara, and some quick, subtle lipstick. Feeling much more like herself, she grabbed her extra set of keys and led Marty out of the house.

  “I also want a new front door lock. Something pick proof, if such a thing exists. Tell the locksmith I’m putting the keys in the mailbox.” She did just that. “Do you mind if I drive, Marty?”

  “Go ahead. I’d like to make some calls, get started on this anyway.”

  She put the Vette through the paces, cornering fast, pushing 90 mph on straight-aways, weaving through traffic with a liberating sense of abandon.

  When they arrived at work, Joan felt good. She loved her office. Joan DeVilliers Productions began its life sharing space with an insurance agent in East Compton. Now, eight years and many movies later, she had a plush sixth floor spread on the Strip with a view and all the chrome and mirrors money could buy.

  Marsha, her secretary, greeted her with a stack of messages and the Fed Ex from Paramount. Joan spent the next hour pouring over the contract, making little additions and deletions to various clauses, the horrors of the previous day lost in a stream of legalese.

  That done, she had Marsha free up her schedule for the afternoon and got to work on reviewing some script changes for the Cruise film. Rather than her usual lunch at Brisbeee’s, Joan ordered pizza and surprised herself by eating four slices. She was on her fifth when the intercom buzzed.

  “Joan? The LAPD in on line two. Says it’s urgent.”

  “Thanks, Marsha.”

  Urgent. Had they caught the creep?

  “This is Joan DeVilliers.”

  “You broke my nose, bitch. You think it’s over? I’m going to shove a stake so far up your—”

  Joan slammed down the receiver. When her hands stopped shaking, she called the police.

  “These aren’t eggs.” Bert poked at the airline food with his undersized plastic fork. “I think they’re some kind of polymer. I shouldn’t have paid extra for the meal.”

  Tom didn’t care. He devoured them anyway, along with the stale bun, the dry sausage, and two cups of bland coffee. He also polished off Roy’s meal while his partner snored, zonked out from the painkillers.

  “So we’re meeting with the doctor who created us?”

  Tom frowned at the terminology. He didn’t like the idea of being created. But then, he wasn’t exactly born either. Or was he? The answers were less than an hour away.

  “He’s picking us up at the airport.”

  “I don’t see why he had to come.” Bert pointed his chin at Roy. He hadn’t shaved, and it was tough to spot his stitches.

  “He’s my partner. We watch each other’s backs. You didn’t have to come either. You could have stayed in Chicago.”

  “I have a right. I have questions, too.”

  “You didn’t have to bring your lures.”

  “They go where I go.” Bert reached up and switched off the blowing nozzle. “Recirculated air. I call these things germ cannons. You might as well be French kissing everyone on the plane.”

  Tom wiped the pat of butter off the little white square of cardboard and onto his third bun. Bert stored his tray in the upright position and fished a magazine out of the pouch on the seat ahead of him.

  “Oh boy. An issue of Macramé Monthly that I haven’t read yet.”

  The flight attendant collected their plates, but not before Tom forked the last sausage into his mouth. The cut inside his cheek had healed some, but the salty meat still stung. If indeed it was meat—it tasted more like a member of the rubber family. He didn’t feel the wound on his head at all, and since his hair covered the stitches it wasn’t even noticeable. The thing that hurt like hell was his ribcage; sleeping on Roy’s soft leather couch had been a mistake. Every breath was like a fork in the chest.

  Tom glanced to his left, over the lightly snoring Roy, out the window. Clouds obscured his view. To his right, Bert was absorbed in the magazine. It was strange to look at him, a face so recognizable that it was practically an archetype.

  “So, Bert—since you found out about the Einstein thing, has there been any indication that you really are him?”

  Bert set the magazine down.

  “You mean have I ever had any brilliant thoughts or ideas?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Nope. Not one.”

  “Have you ever taken an IQ test?”

  “Like those Mensa puzzles? Figure out which number comes next in the series?”

  “Yeah. Those.”

  “No. Never could get through them. I got slightly above average on my SAT, though. After my third try.”

  Tom noticed several strands of gray in Bert’s wavy hair. In ten or twenty years it would become the great white mop known the world over.

  “How about you, Tom? Do you feel any different? Since finding out?”

  Tom was about to answer no, but he realized that wasn’t the case. Though he still felt like himself, he was experiencing something akin to performance anxiety. He’d been struggling with it since last night, after Harold had asked when he was going to go into politics.

  There was a whole big world out there. Shouldn’t he be doing something more than just police work? Tom had always thought he was a good cop, good at his job, but now it didn’t seem like it was enough.

  “I don’t feel like a different person, but I think I do feel a little inadequate.”

  “That will pass. Soon you’ll feel completely worthless.”

  Bert went back to his magazine. Tom opened the little nozzle over his head, bathing his face with th
e germ cannon’s cool, stale air. He smoothed out the wrinkles in the tan pants Roy had lent him. They were a little big in the waist, but otherwise fit fine. The loaned shirt was another story. Tom was swimming in it, and since putting it on he felt the urge to hit the gym and work on his pecs.

  Bert hummed as he read. Something vaguely familiar. When Tom realized it was Britney Spears he shook his head. As far as nature vs. nurture went, Bert was a damn fine argument for nurture.

  “What’s 55 x 26?” Tom asked.

  “Hell if I know.”

  “I thought you were a stock market wizard.”

  Bert looked up at him.

  “How did… that doctor told you, didn’t he? You said he kept tabs on us.” Bert shrugged. “I did some trading. Made some fortunes. Lost some fortunes. That’s behind me now.”

  “But you were good at it? Without dealing with numbers?”

  “I didn’t deal in numbers. I dealt in shares and dollars.”

  “Same thing.”

  “Not for me.”

  “Okay—if I had 85,552 dollars and wanted to buy some shares of stock that sold at 2 ¼, how many shares could I buy?”

  Bert didn’t hesitate. “You could buy 38,023 shares and have 11 cents left over.” When the realization of what he just said hit him, he broke into a wide grin. “Hey! Do another one.”

  Surprised, Tom continued. “A guy wants to buy 351 shares of a stock that’s at 6 7/8s.”

  “He needs 2413 dollars and 12 and a half cents.” Bert beamed. “Wow! I’m pretty amazing!”

  “What’s 18 x 45?”

  Bert’s smile faltered. “I don’t know.”

  “That doesn’t make sense, Bert.”

  “I know it doesn’t make sense. But I just don’t know.”

  “Okay, what if I wanted to buy 45 shares of stock at 18 dollars a share?”

  “Eight hundred and ten dollars. This is weird, Tom. How come I can do it if it’s a stock question but not when it’s just simple multiplication?”