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

by J. A. Konrath

  It sounded lame as it came out of Tom’s mouth.

  “No, you won’t.”

  “Sure we will.” Bert said. “You’re practically a corpse now. I got half a tube of toothpaste that’s gonna last longer than you.”

  “Au contraire. I’ll be getting my eleventh kidney transplant tomorrow.”

  Tom knew people who have been waiting their whole lives for one, and this ugly bastard has had almost a dozen?

  “I suppose being rich gets you to the top of all those donor lists.”

  “Something like that.” Another twisted smile.

  “Why’d you stop at Senator, Stang? An ego your size shouldn’t have settled for less than President.”

  “Unfortunately, I was born in Germany. The Constitution—which you had a hand in writing, Tom—states that a President must be born in America. I tried three times, during my years as Senator, to add an amendment changing that. Each time I was unsuccessful.”

  “What a shame. I suppose there’s always hope for Phil Jr. I wonder if he’s involved in all of this? Maybe we should pay him a visit.”

  Stang’s mood darkened. “Please do. I’ll instruct the Secret Service to shoot you on sight. It will save me the trouble.”

  “Roy, do you get the feeling that daddy’s little angel is involved in this too?”

  “I think so. Maybe if we go to the media, make a big enough stink, something will shake loose.”

  Stang laughed, a short clipped sound like a dog bark.

  “I’d like to see that. Go to the networks, tell them you’re Jefferson and Einstein, and see what they do. There’s no proof. No records.”

  “There’s DNA testing.”

  “That takes weeks.” Another wicked grin. “You don’t have weeks. The remainder of your lives can be measured in hours. Jerome, would you mind escorting them out?”

  Tom turned and saw Jerome in the doorway. He was holding a pistol casually at his side.

  “Big deal.” Roy opened up his jacket. “I got one too.”

  Tom patted Roy on the shoulder. This wasn’t the time or the place for a shoot out. “Come on. Let’s go.”

  Jerome permitted them out the door, and followed them through the hall. Tom was angry. But even worse than that, he felt powerless.

  “What the hell happened in there?” Roy shook his head.

  Bert agreed. “I feel like a fly he just shooed away.”

  They went down the stairs, Jerome trailing closely behind.

  “It’s just round one, guys. We’ll regroup, do it differently next time. At least we know what we’re dealing with now.”

  “A rich, powerful, psychotic egomaniac?” Bert pulled a face. “I was happier not knowing.”

  Roy snorted. “Maybe we’ll be lucky, he’ll die during his operation.”

  “He’s only part of the problem. We also have to deal with Vlad, Attila, and Jack. Plus this guy.”

  Tom pointed to a large portrait hanging at the bottom of the staircase. It was of an elderly Phillip Stang, sitting on a chair. Standing behind him, resting a hand on Phil’s shoulder, was a young man who bore a striking resemblance.

  “Phil junior. Mr. Speaker of the House. You think he’s in this too?”

  “Does the apple fall far from the tree?”

  Jerome stood patiently in the foyer while they let themselves out.

  “So what next? Do we go after Mr. Speaker?”

  Tom shook his head. “How? Even if we could get to him, what do we do? Tape some wires to our chests and trick him into revealing his plot for world domination?”

  “I say we go to the media.”

  “They’ll laugh at us unless we have evidence. We need DNA tests. But even then, we’d need original samples.”

  “Well, we’re in Springfield. Want to buy some shovels, dig up Lincoln?”

  Tom actually considered it for a moment—proof that he needed some sleep.

  “How about the FBI?” Bert asked. “Or the CIA?”

  “We don’t know how far Stang has influence. Between him and his son, I bet he could send the entire Army after us.”

  “Then can’t we just kill them both? Pop some caps?”

  “We’re not assassins, Bert.”

  Bert climbed in back and passed Roy the donut. Tom sat in the driver’s seat and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, lost in thought.

  “How about the Unholy Trio? Jack, Vlad, and Attila?”

  “What about them?”

  “Well, they’re involved in this, and they’re going to come after us, so we could set some kind of trap.”

  “I hate sitting around, waiting for things to happen. Plus, we caught one already, and they just let him go.”

  “And what about the other clones?” Bert asked. “They’re on the list, too.”

  “Okay. Let me think.”

  Tom rubbed his temples. The situation seemed pretty hopeless. With the bad guy so high up in government, they couldn’t expect any help through the official channels. They could try to go over his head, but Tom didn’t have high hopes the President would take their calls.

  “Stang said we’re a liability.”

  “Yeah. What did he mean by that?”

  “Obviously, us being alive is bad for him somehow. He wants us dead for a reason. And it can’t be because we know too much, because he wants the other clones dead as well, and they don’t know anything.”

  “I get it. There must be more at stake here than just killing us off. Maybe you were right about the world domination thing.”

  “Look, we’re not cops now, right? So let’s say we grabbed Attila or Jack. We wouldn’t have to take him in. Maybe he’d tell us what’s going on.”

  “He wouldn’t want to talk.”

  Roy’s face got very serious. “I can be persuasive.”

  Tom looked at Roy, then at Bert. “Do we all agree, then? We try to grab one of the bad guys?”

  “What about saving the other clones?”

  “We can do both.”

  “I’m in.”

  “Me too.”

  “Okay, then.” Tom started the car and cranked up the heat. “We know Joan of Arc is in Hollywood, and Abe Lincoln is in Nebraska.”

  “Always wanted to see Hollywood,” Bert mused.

  “Me too.”

  “Sounds good.” Tom cruised down the driveway and through the gate, leaving the Stang estate. “California here we come.”

  “Joan?” Marsha peeked in the door. “There are some men here to see you.”

  Joan checked her desk calendar and didn’t see any scheduled meetings for that day.

  “Are they anybody?” Anybody big in the business who wouldn’t need an appointment.

  “They said they’re police officers.”

  “Thanks, Marsha. Send them in.”

  “Is everything… okay?”

  “It’s fine. I was assaulted last night. I’ll tell you about it later.”

  Marsha’s head disappeared, and a moment later three men came into her office. The first was black, big, cop written all over him. The second guy was smaller, a mustache, familiar in some way she couldn’t place. Bringing up the rear was a tall, wiry man, with sandy hair. He’s the one who spoke.

  “Miss DeVilliers? I’m Detective Tom Mankowski. This is my partner, Roy Lewis, and this is Bert Blumberg.”

  “Thanks for coming down, Officers. You’re here with good news, I hope. You caught the creep?”

  “The creep?”

  “The guy who attacked me.”

  For a moment they didn’t seem to understand her. Then the tall one, Tom, approached her desk.

  “Was it one of these guys?”

  He opened up a binder and handed her three color computer print outs. The first picture was of a muscular man covered with tattoos. She flipped to the second page. Goatee. Green eyes. There was no doubt at all.

  “This is him! Have you picked him up yet?”

  “This man attacked you?”

  “Twice. Tried t
o put me on a big stake. You’ve read the reports. Right?”

  None of them answered. Joan narrowed her eyes.

  “Are you guys LAPD?”

  “Miss DeVilliers—”

  “I’d like to see some identification, please.”

  “Joan, listen, you’re in danger.”

  “Do you have any ID or not?”

  “Please, give us just a second. This is important.”

  Joan felt her face flush. Paparazzi. It was only a matter of time before they caught wind of it. She hit the intercom button in her desk. “Marsha…”

  “We’re not from LA. Roy and I are Chicago Homicide Detectives. We’re following up on a murder investigation where the victim had a number 7 tattooed on his heel. Just like your number 3.”

  Marsha’s voice came through the speaker. “Yes, Ms. DeVilliers?”

  The tattoo again. Joan stared at Tom. His suit was off the rack, wrinkled, and his face left no doubt he was exhausted. His partners shared the look. Joan tried to tune into any perceived threat, any bad vibe, any hint of them being media jackals. They were calm as calm could be.

  “Hold my calls.” Joan leaned back and crossed her legs. “You have my attention.”

  “The man who attacked you is named Victor Pignosky. He goes by the name of Vlad. He also has a tattoo on his heel, the number 10. I’ve got a number 5. Bert here has a number 6. There are ten of us, total. All the same age. All adopted by different parents. Vlad and two of the others are trying to kill the rest of us—me, you, Bert. They’ve already succeeded twice.”

  “Do you have any proof of this?”

  Tom and Bert looked at each other, and then took off their shoes. Their tattoos matched the style of Joan’s.

  “Okay, so why does this Vlad guy want to kill me—us?”

  “We’re not sure.”

  “And what’s the deal with the numbers? Are you guys my brothers?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Well, what exactly is going on?”

  “We should tell her.” The familiar guy, Bert, nudged Tom.

  He shook his head. “How can we prove it? With her, we can’t do the writing thing. There’s no pictures, no photos. Maybe we could look for old French paintings.”

  “You’re going to have to tell her sooner or later.” The black man, Roy, shrugged. “She either buys it or she don’t.”

  “Try me. I’m a Hollywood producer. I’ve heard it all.”

  “Fine.” Tom took a deep breath. “This will sound crazy. It sounded crazy to me, when I heard it. But all ten of us, we weren’t born, normally. We were—created. In a lab, in Mexico.”

  “Created, how? Are we talking mad scientists and test tubes here? Some holy miracle thing?”

  “We were cloned from famous historical figures.”

  Joan frowned. “You just lost me.”

  The little guy sighed. “He’s telling the truth. I’m a clone of Albert Einstein. He’s Thomas Jefferson. The guy who attacked you is Vlad the Impaler.”

  “And I’m…?”

  “Joan of Arc.”

  She hit the button. “Marsha, call Security.”

  Tom said, “Look. This thing is big. The police won’t be able to protect you. Victor—Vlad—isn’t going to stop. We’re all on a hit list.”

  “Nice try.”

  “This is the truth.”

  Joan let out a slow breath, surprised she’d suspended her disbelief for so long.

  “Well, it sounds like a movie pitch. The cloning angle isn’t bad, but it needs work. Maybe approach it from a comedy perspective. You could call it Send In the Clones.”

  “Security is on the way up, Ms. DeVilliers.”

  “We’re staying over at the Chinatown Holiday Inn. Here’s my cell phone number.” Tom tossed a card onto her desk. “Call if you need us.”

  “Sure thing, President Jefferson. Now, I have some actual work to do. If you’ll pardon me.” Joan smiled. “Get it? Pardon me?”

  Tom looked at her, hard. “Please, be careful.”

  Joan met his stare, and for a second almost believed him. She came very close to calling them back in, but the moment passed and rationality took over. She was no more Joan of Arc than those guys were Einstein and Jefferson. The little guy did look like Einstein, but it was all too far removed from reality. She wasn’t buying.

  But being stalked by some psycho—that was real. And they did have a picture of him, which implied some kind of connection. Joan didn’t perceive them as a threat—there was something very benign about the trio—but the smartest move would be to call the police department and tell them what happened. Let the professionals take care of it. Joan would show up for the trial.

  She located the number of the cop who took her report the night before. But before doing that, she called Marty into her office and had him set up some interviews for personal bodyguards.

  Until this Vlad lunatic was behind bars, Joan wasn’t going to take any chances. Even if she had to hire an entourage.

  “Well, what now? She didn’t believe us.”

  Roy put on his sunglasses. “We knew she wouldn’t. Be honest, I don’t either. I figure this is all just some big white-person conspiracy.”

  They walked out of the building and stopped on the sidewalk. The California sun felt good. Tom inhaled deeply, trying to smell the ocean. He believed he caught a whiff of salt water behind the car fumes and the rotting garbage from the alley.

  “At least we know Vlad is here. Roy, do we have any friends in the LAPD?”

  “Not that I know of. We can always make some.”

  “It’s a shot. I’d like to see those reports on Joan’s attack. Maybe we can catch Vlad before he makes his next move.”

  “So, we’re just supposed to sit here and wait?”

  “That’s the plan, Bert.” Tom held up his hand to hail a cab.

  “How about Lincoln? While we’re here, Attila and Jack could be trying to kill him.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “I’ll go after Abe.”

  Tom turned away from traffic and frowned at Bert. Maybe all the jet lag had caught up with the little guy.

  “Bad idea. These are dangerous guys.”

  “If I want to go, you can’t stop me.”

  “I could break your legs,” Roy suggested. “Then you don’t go nowhere.”

  “I’m not afraid of you.”

  “Don’t matter. I can break your legs whether you’re afraid or not.”

  Bert gave Roy his back and touched Tom’s shoulder. “I’d be dead right now if you didn’t show up when you did. Abe will be easier to convince. There’s a handwriting sample in the leather binder, and the guy already knows he looks like Lincoln. We have to warn him, or he’ll die.”

  “And if we leave LA, we miss our shot at Vlad and Joan will die.”

  “Why can’t we save them both?”

  “Let’s vote.”

  “No voting. You guys will team up against me again. The choice is simple—you let me go to Nebraska, or I’ll take off as soon as you both turn your backs.”

  A cab stopped by the curb.

  “We’ll discuss it back at the hotel.”

  “We’ll discuss it now. There’s a beat cop right across the street. All I have to do is start screaming that you two have guns.”

  Tom and Roy looked at each other. The cabbie leaned out the window. “You guys getting in or what?”

  “I could keep an eye on him, make sure he’s okay.”

  Tom couldn’t believe that came out of Roy’s mouth.

  “You’re kidding.”

  Bert was just as amazed. “You want to come with me?”

  “No, damn you both. I don’t want to go with you. But if we don’t have a choice, I’ll go. We zip over there, warn the guy, make sure he’s safe, zip back here. Could be back by tonight. I’m anxious to get back on a plane anyway. Been so long.”

  Tom considered it. Someone had to keep an eye on Joan, but it wasn’t very likely Vl
ad would attack her again so soon. And, honestly, it would be nice to be alone for a little while. Tom had some personal issues to sort out, a difficult task when surrounded by constant bickering.

  “Fine. Let’s hit the hotel, we’ll come up with a game plan.”

  The cabbie was fat, sweaty, and strongly smelled like a gym sock. The three of them climbed into the back seat. Roy was hesitant to sit down—Tom knew his donut was back at the hotel.

  “You should have taken it with.”

  “And do what with it? Carry it around on my neck?”

  “This is LA. I don’t think anyone would notice. Slug bug red, no hit backs.” Bert popped him in the shoulder. “And there’s another one! Slug bug green, no hit backs.” Bert hit him again, same spot.

  The cabbie scowled at Roy. “Buddy, you need to sit down.”

  “I’m trying to sit down. This jackass keeps whacking me.”

  Tom questioned his decision to sit between them. The front seat seemed like the lesser evil.

  “Chinatown Holiday Inn.”

  “Sweet Mary mother of Jesus wife of Joseph the carpenter!” Roy finally managed to sit down.

  “So, you guys play the slug bug game?” The taxi driver grinned at them in his rearview. “I see that all the time. Lot of Beetles in Hollywood. Trendy.”

  “There’s one.” Roy reached over and pounded Bert in the leg. “Slug bug black, no hit backs.”

  “Where?”

  “Right there.”

  “That’s a BMW.” Bert smacked Roy twice. “Wrong car, double hit backs.”

  “Can you guys quit this, please?” Tom looked ahead in the distance. “Oh God, no.”

  “Here it is.” The cabbie pointed to his right. “Largest Volkswagen dealership in Los Angeles.”

  It was ugly. Real ugly.

  When they got to the hotel, Bert and Roy were still laughing.

  “I hurt my hand, smacking you so much.”

  “I got so many bruises, I’m going to be darker than you. How’s your arm?”

  “I need a Vicodin. You hit me sixty-five times in the exact same spot. But the one who really nailed me was Tommy. Man, you hit hard.”

  “No kidding.” Bert patted Tom on the back. “You were jabbing so fast your hands were a blur. I didn’t think you liked this game.”

  “Yeah, Tom. Next time, though, you have to call out the color of the car. You forgot to say anything.”