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

by J. A. Konrath

  “Like it was yesterday. They played the Bulls. Jordan scored 43 points.”

  “So you’ll come out? They’re playing on Thursday. I don’t know what your schedule is like…”

  Bert bit his lower lip. “I don’t think I can make that game, Dad. But thanks.”

  “Well, another time then. Bert?”

  “Dad?”

  “I know…” He cleared his throat. “I know I haven’t been the most affectionate father. That was always your mother’s department. Hugs and kisses and birthday cards. But, I’m glad you called.”

  “I’m glad too.”

  “I love you, son.”

  “Thanks, Dad. Love you too. Bye-bye.”

  Jack took back the phone and pretended to wipe away tears. “I’m all choked up, here. Really. That was touching. The old man actually said he loved you?”

  Bert refused to look at him.

  “My dad loved me, too. It was a different kind of love, though. He had some—issues. Well, let’s be honest. He got off on hurting me. But behind every attack, there was love. I’ve missed him every day since I killed him.”

  “You sick bastard.”

  “You sick bastard. That’s all you can say? Well, maybe the insults will get more creative as the night drags on. I’ll warn you, though. Try to get them all in early. Because later, instead of calling me names you’ll be telling me you love me just to make the pain stop.”

  Bert took a deep breath, searched deep within himself, and found a little reserve of courage. He met Jack’s stare head on.

  “I’m a big, stupid, mama’s boy.”

  Jack didn’t even pause. “I’m a big, stupid, mama’s boy.”

  “And I play with dolls.”

  “And I play with dolls.” Jack’s eyes narrowed. “I see what you’re doing here.”

  “I have to repeat everything because I’m a moron.”

  “I have to repeat everything because I’m a moron. Stop it. Now.”

  Bert racked his brain for more insults. He could remember a show he saw on cable about serial killers. Many of them killed animals, started fires, wet the bed…

  “I wet the bed until I was twenty.”

  Jack’s jaw clenched, and his head began to shake. “I… wet the bed until I was twenty.”

  Bert raised his eyebrows. “Hey, I think we hit a nerve. I’m a bed-wetting little psycho and nobody loves me.”

  Jack slapped Bert across the face. The blow sent him swinging.

  “I’m… a… bed-wetting…”

  “Little psycho and nobody loves me.”

  “Little psycho and nobody loves me. You’re going to wish you hadn’t done this.”

  Jack hurried down the ladder. Bert watched him scamper to the shelving unit, where the rope was anchored. The thought of being dropped on that stake made Bert want to gag. His mind raced. Was there any possible way to get out of this alive? He didn’t see any. Roy—poor Roy— was dead. Bert had only known him a few days, but he considered him a friend. Tom was in LA, and probably wouldn’t find out about their deaths for a few days. No rescue, no escape. All the future held was a long, awful death.

  Bert looked down, between his legs. He was still reeling from Jack’s slap, and the stake swayed back and forth beneath him.

  Maybe he couldn’t stop death, but he could delay it for a little while. Bert kicked his legs out and began to swing.

  “Stop that!”

  Bert stretched out his leg, trying to reach the ladder. Maybe, just maybe, he could get onto it…

  The rope went slack and Bert fell.

  He stopped abruptly. At first, he thought he’d landed on the ladder and everything was okay. Then the pain hit. His left buttock. White hot, searing pain. Right to the bone.

  “No!” Jack screamed. He grabbed the rope and held it tight. “Look what you did! It’s supposed to go between your legs!”

  Bert felt himself jerked upwards, being pulled off the stake. He looked down, saw the blood on the tip, felt his left leg go numb.

  “If it hit an artery, you’ll bleed to death!”

  Good, Bert thought.

  Jack tied the rope back to the shelves and climbed up the ladder. He spun Bert around and clucked to himself, inspecting the wound in a frantic, worried manner.

  “I think it’s okay. I think it’s okay.”

  Bert blinked back the pain.

  “I wear diapers.”

  “I wear diapers!” Jack grabbed Bert’s shirt and pulled him close. “Do you want to play? We’ll do it this way, then!”

  Jack went to the top of the ladder and leaned on Bert’s shoulder so he couldn’t swing. Bert watched him take a long knife out of a sheath on his belt.

  “This time, the stake won’t miss.”

  Jack reached up to saw away at the rope. Bert closed his eyes and tried to brace himself. He couldn’t swing. He couldn’t get away. The stake was going to find its mark, and his terrible death would soon begin. Though not a practicing Jew, Bert’s lips silently formed the only Hebrew words he knew. Baruch atah Adonai. Praise the Lord.

  Then, suddenly, Jack cried out and there was no more pressure on his shoulder. Bert looked and saw the ladder tumbling over, Jack falling to the ground. And standing there, bare-chested…

  “Roy!”

  “Damn straight.”

  Jack hit the floor rolling. He came up in a crouch, still gripping the knife. His face registered surprise, and when he saw Roy it burned red with rage. He pointed the knife at him, shaking.

  “You! I killed you!”

  Roy had something big in his hands. It was a black garbage bag—one of the bags from Abe’s car that had been filled with cans. Roy held it at his side.

  “What’s this I hear about diapers?”

  “What’s this… I hear… about diapers!”

  Jack lunged, thrusting at Roy’s stomach with the knife. Roy danced away from the blade and swung the garbage bag like a baseball bat, smacking Jack in the face and chest with a hard, solid blow.

  It wasn’t filled with cans. When the bag burst open on impact, it covered Jack with a tangled mass of fishing lures. Hundreds of them.

  Jack wailed and pitched to the floor. He rolled around, thrashing and kicking. Hooks were stuck in his clothes, his head, his neck. One hand was hooked to his chest, and the other was tugging at a bright orange object stuck in his eye.

  The smart thing would have been to just stop moving and wait for help. But Jack became more and more hysterical. He somehow got to his feet, screaming like a little girl, and sprinted away from Roy, tearing off in the opposite direction.

  Straight at Abe.

  “Holy shit!” Abe took three steps back and raised something in his right hand. A tire iron.

  “Get the hell away from me!”

  Jack continued to race forward, gaining speed, blood spraying off him as he ran. Abe was backed up against the shelves and had no place to go.

  Bert was transfixed, unable to turn away. Jack had so many lures stuck on him he looked like a decorated Christmas tree. He was four steps away from Abe… three… two…

  Abe yelped and brought the weapon down, cracking it hard against the side of Jack’s head. Jack flopped to the ground like a fish. He twitched twice, and then was still. Abe dropped the tire iron and staggered away.

  “I think I’m having a heart attack.”

  Lincoln took three more steps and then fell to his knees. His hand clutched his chest, and his face was scrunched up in pain.

  “Abe!” Roy hurried to him, grabbed his arm.

  “Chest pains. Bad. That guy… Jesus.”

  “Stay calm. I’ll call an ambulance.”

  “Wait… wait… wait…”

  Abe opened his mouth and let out an incredibly long belch.

  “I’m okay. It was the francheesie.”

  Roy left him to his heartburn. He went to the fallen ladder and set it up under Bert.

  “I got you, buddy.”

  “Hi, Roy. I thought you were de
ad.”

  “Naw. Just went for a brisk swim.” Roy helped Bert get his feet onto the rungs. “Hey, Abe. Cut that rope.”

  Abe was smacking his lips. “That sure didn’t taste too good the second time. Just a sec.”

  “My ass. It’s killing me.”

  “Mine, too. We’ll buy a couple of donuts. Try to stand up.”

  Bert stared into Roy’s eyes. He saw deep concern. “You saved me.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “You’re welcome? You hit him with my entire life savings. You couldn’t find a brick, or a board or something?”

  “Maybe I should leave you hanging there.”

  The rope was severed and Bert’s arms came down. His legs were shaking, and Roy assisted him to the ground.

  Abe came over with the knife and cut the rope tying Bert’s hands. There were bloody ligature marks around his wrists, but that paled next to the pain of his circulation returning. It was as if Bert had stuck both hands in a barbecue grill. He moaned.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Half a million dollars.” Bert looked around the warehouse, lures scattered all over.

  Abe held up the knife. “We could, uh, get them back if you want.”

  Bert winced at the thought. His eyes fanned over to Jack’s body. Moments ago, he didn’t think there was any worse way to die than being impaled. Jack just proved him wrong. A horrible death, for a horrible man.

  “Leave them. I just lost my stomach for the lure business.”

  “Well, your ass doesn’t look too bad.”

  “Thanks, Roy. You’ve got a cute ass yourself.”

  “I meant, I don’t think you’re gonna bleed to death.”

  Bert laughed. “And just two minutes ago, I was hoping I’d bleed to death.”

  Roy eyed the stake. “I bet. Nasty.”

  “How’d you find me?”

  “Tom. The transmitter. Shit, I should call him back. He doesn’t have our number. Abe, gimme your phone.”

  Abe was squatting on the ground, picking up lures. “These things are really worth that much money?”

  “The phone, Abe.”

  Abe pulled the cell out of his pocket and tossed it to Roy. Roy pressed a few buttons. “It doesn’t work.”

  “Hit it.”

  Roy smacked it a few times. “Was that supposed to help?”

  “Naw. Battery is dead. But don’t you feel better?”

  Bert made himself look at Jack again. He felt many things—fear, revulsion, anger, even sympathy. He focused his eyes on the phone clipped to his belt.

  “Jack’s got a phone.”

  No one made any move to retrieve it.

  “We should search him, anyway.” Roy scratched his chin.

  “Abe, you’re closest. Grab his phone.”

  “No way. I saw this movie before. I go near him, he comes back to life and grabs me.”

  Bert made the decision. “I’ll do it.”

  Roy shook his head. “No need, Bert. I got this one.”

  “It’s okay. I don’t want to spend the next thirty years in therapy, whining about my fear. I’d rather face it now.”

  Bert limped over to Jack, one hand pressed against the wound on his backside. With each step, he was less sure of himself. Deep in his psyche, Bert knew that confronting the horrific corpse of the man who almost killed him was somehow therapeutic. Shrinks talked a lot about closure. This was closure in spades. But it still scared the hell out of him.

  He can’t hurt me anymore. Bert said it over and over in his head. A mantra. He stopped next to the corpse, leaning down, focusing on the goal, reaching out a hand…

  “Don’t let him grab you!” Abe yelled.

  Bert took the phone. Triumphant, he began to turn away, but something caught his eye. A piece of paper, sticking out of Jack’s back pocket. Abe tugged it out. A plane ticket.

  “While you’re over there being brave, check his wallet.” Roy said.

  “No fair,” Abe said. “I killed him, I get his wallet.”

  “We’re looking for evidence, Abe, not robbing him.”

  Bert patted down Jack’s pockets, careful to avoid getting hooked. He dug out a billfold, some keys, and a small plastic tube.

  “You doing okay?” Roy had come up to him, put a hand on his shoulder.

  “I’m fine.” The case was black, about half the size of a pencil. It had a screw top. Bert shook the contents onto his palm.

  “What is that? Drugs?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  The object was small, about two centimeters long. It looked like a miniature missile. Pointy on one end, tiny wings on the other.

  “It’s a dart of some kind.” Roy carefully picked it up between his thumb and index finger and held it close. “Has some kind of mark. Squiggles, like Chinese writing.”

  “YOU!!!!”

  The three of them whirled to see Jack. Somehow, impossibly, he’d gotten to his feet and launched himself at the trio, one arm stretched out for a pointy and lethal embrace.

  Roy shoved Bert to the side and put out his hand to hold Jack back. As soon as Roy touched him, Jack’s eyes rolled up in their sockets and he gasped, falling to the ground. His body jerked twice, and then he was still.

  Abe nodded smartly.

  “I told you that was gonna happen.”

  “Is he dead?” Bert asked. “What the hell did you hit him with?”

  Roy shrugged. “I just poked him with the little dart thingy.”

  Bloody froth foamed out of Jack’s mouth.

  “It killed him that fast?”

  “Apparently so. Let’s try to avoid those things in the future. Gimme the phone.”

  Roy took the cell from Bert and pressed some buttons.

  “Tom? Yeah, he’s safe. Jack’s dead. Okay, tell me.”

  Bert watched Roy’s face. As Tom talked, it became grimmer and grimmer.

  “Great. I was hoping this situation would become a lot more desperate. Jack had a ticket on him. Lemme see it.” Bert handed it over. “Tomorrow night, to DC. Yeah, it makes sense. I’ll break it to the guys, call you right back.”

  “What is it?” Bert braced himself for bad news.

  Roy pocketed the phone. “Well, Shakespeare was a bad guy. He’s dead. It looks like Stang’s plot goes beyond just killing all the clones. Way beyond. The stakes have gone up.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Apparently, the day after tomorrow, Stang is planning on assassinating both the President and the Vice President at the same time.” Roy let the words sink in. “And we all know who’s next in line for the Presidency.”

  “The Secretary of State?” Abe looked up from the pile of lures he’d been gathering. “The Attorney General? The Prime Minister? Don’t tell me, I know this. Oprah?”

  “The Speaker of the House. Phil Jr.”

  Bert’s stomach dropped. “If he becomes President, we’re all dead.”

  “It’s a lot worse than that. He’s planning on blaming China for the assassinations.”

  Bert followed the line of thought. “Oh no.”

  “That’s right.” Roy’s face creased with worry. “Get ready for World War III.”

  Tom clicked on the NEWS icon at www.whitehouse.gov, to check the upcoming events for the President.

  “He’s in Canada for the next two days.”

  Joan asked, “Where?”

  Tom checked where the Prez was supposed to be tomorrow at 4:15—that was the time mentioned in Bill’s speech. At precisely a quarter after four, Eastern time, our nation lost two of its finest leaders…

  “He’ll be in Montreal. He’s addressing the North American Energy Commission, whatever that is.”

  “How about the Vice President?”

  Tom couldn’t find any mention of him. “I guess he’ll be presiding over the Senate. Roy mentioned that Jack had a plane ticket to DC. They must be planning on murdering him while Congress is in session.”

  “So we’ve got—what—twenty ho
urs to try and stop a double assassination?”

  “We can place an anonymous call to the Secret Service, tell them the plot, and they’ll take care of it.”

  “They’ll want proof. Which we don’t have.”

  “We’ll be real convincing.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  Tom turned and looked at her. “What do you mean?”

  “Do you honestly think that the President is going to cancel his speech because of an anonymous phone call? He probably gets threatened every day by nuts from all over the world. Suppose you got a call saying the mayor of Chicago was going to be killed at a speech. What would you do?”

  Tom saw her point. “We’d beef up security.”

  “But we have to assume Stang can already beat security. Hell, the Secret Service may actually be in on it, with all of Stang’s connections. Would the mayor cancel his speech?”

  Tom shook his head slowly. “Probably not. He’d have faith in his security staff. Plus he’d want to prove that he’s not easily scared. Terrorists can’t push this administration around, that kind of thing.”

  “So an anonymous call is out. If we tried talking to the Secret Service in person, and told them the truth about everything that happened, how far would we get?”

  Tom knew how that would go. “We’d get detained, and possibly arrested. We might be questioned for days, even weeks. Without due process, if Homeland Security got involved. And Stang would deny it all, of course.”

  Joan’s face scrunched up in thought. “What if we went to the speech, and tried to warn him in person?”

  “We wouldn’t get within a hundred yards of him before the Secret Service swarmed all over us.” Their options were dwindling. “How about the media? Could we tell them?”

  “Same problem. We’d have to convince someone really high up before the President would listen, and we don’t have any proof. Do you think Dan Rather is any easier to get a hold of than the President?”

  “We have some proof. The speech.”

  “Shakespeare is dead. How can we prove he wrote it?”

  Tom tapped his fingers on the desk, thinking. “What’s left? Go after Stang?”

  “Which one? Senior or Junior?”

  “We probably couldn’t get to Phil Jr.—he’s protected by the Secret Service same as the President. But maybe we can pay Phil Sr. another visit, try to force him to call off his dogs.”