Fuck him. There were scarier things than wolves.
Much scarier things.
Sara pawed at the nightstand drawer, pulling it open, digging through magazines for the snub nosed .38 she kept there. A gift from Tyrone. Not registered, but it wasn’t like she could get into any more trouble than she already was in.
But the gun wasn’t there. Sara had a fleeting recollection of being at the kitchen table, crying and drunk, the gun in her mouth.
Shit. I left it in the kitchenette.
Funny, how she routinely contemplated suicide, yet now that her life might actually be threatened she wanted the gun for protection.
Maybe she had some fight in her after all.
Sara gripped the bottle by the neck, holding it like a club, and eased her feet out of bed. She stood up, wobbly, but a pro at walking under the influence. Two steps and she was to the bedroom door. Two more and she was next to the bathroom.
Movement, to her right, and Sara screamed and swung, the bottle connecting with the mirror hanging on the bathroom door.
It spiderwebbed with a tinkling crunch, and Sara saw herself in a dozen different triangles, hair wild, eyes red, wearing a dirty sweatshirt crusted with old shrimp chow mien that she’s apparently eaten while drunk. Once upon a time, she’d been clean and pretty. Looking at herself now, Sara guessed homeless shelters would turn her away for being too gross.
Another knock, so close it felt like a full-body blow. The SoCo bottle had survived the impact with the mirror, and she clutched the neck even tighter as she made her decision.
There is no way in hell I’m answering that door.
Instead she backed away, turning in the other direction, heading for the phone on the wall. Right before she snatched up the receiver, it rang.
Sara stared, the lump in her throat making it impossible to draw a breath. She remembered the fear she’d felt on the island, and the same sick, familiar feeling spread over her.
Terror.
Pure, paralyzing terror.
Hand shaking so badly it looked like a palsy, Sara’s finger hovered over the speakerphone button.
The phone rang again, making her whimper.
Do I press it?
Do I?
She jabbed at it, hitting the wrong key. Then she tried again.
The speakerphone hissed at her, and a deep male voice barked, “Open the door, Sara.”
Sara wet her sweatpants.
Mililani, Hawaii
Josh
Josh VanCamp gasped, drawing air through his mouth because a tiny hand was pinching his nose closed.
He opened his eyes, staring at the capuchin monkey sitting on his chest. Josh brushed the primate’s paw away from his face.
“Mathison, what are—”
The monkey put a finger over Josh’s mouth, telling him to be quiet. A moment later, Woof began to bark.
His warning bark. Strangers were near.
“Someone’s here,” Josh said.
The monkey nodded. Josh glanced at his wife, lying next to him. “Fran?”
“I’m up.”
She was already swinging her legs out of the bed, pressing the intercom button on the wall.
“Duncan,” she said, “panic room. Grab Woof.”
Her son responded instantly. “Meet you there.”
Josh placed Mathison on his shoulder, and the monkey pulled Josh’s hoodie around him. He was frightened.
Josh wasn’t. He had too much to do.
He slipped on the boat shoes he kept next to the bed—thick leather and tough rubber soles—and reached for the closet door.
“Hon?” he asked.
“Ready.”
Josh reached inside, grabbing one of the Browning Maxus autoloader shotguns, tossing it over his shoulder like they’d practiced so many times, not bothering to see if his wife caught it as he reached for its companion.
They walked the hallway in standard two-by-two cover formation, Josh favoring the left, Fran the right. The air conditioning kicked on, normal for nighttime in Hawaii. Other than that the house was quiet. Still.
Josh passed one of the burglar alarm panels, not bothering to punch in and access surveillance, confident the animals’ senses were good reason enough to get into the panic room. Since they’d moved here five years previous, the monkey and dog had had far fewer false alarms than the ten thousand dollar system they’d installed. If this turned out to be another, no harm in it. They were due for a late night drill later in the week anyway.
Depending on your past, one man’s paranoia was another man’s common sense. And after what the trio had lived through in Safe Haven, Wisconsin, Josh couldn’t think of a single thing they’d done to keep themselves safe that qualified as paranoia.
They reached the door, and Josh stared at the fake light switch. In the up position, meaning Duncan was already inside. He swiveled the switch to the right and punched in the numeric code on the revealed keypad. The door latch snicked opened, and Fran went down the stairs first, Josh locking and sealing the door behind him, tight as a bank vault.
Basements were rare on the Big Island. Blasting through the solid rock was difficult, and deemed foolhardy in light of the constant threat of storms. But Josh’s basement had its own industrial sump pump that protected against flooding, run by its own generator that worked separate from the main grid.
Josh followed Fran into the equipment room. Duncan was standing at the ready, a Glock 13 in his hand and pointed downward. He had the same angular features as Fran, same eyes, but he was growing into his masculinity and had been letting the peach fuzz on his upper lip accumulate even though they’d given him a Norelco for Christmas. Like his mother, his expression was hard, but without fear. Even though Josh was only a father by marriage, he beamed with pride at Duncan’s resolve. The kid had gone through hell, and had come out the other side stronger.
Woof, their fat beagle, looked up at them, tongue out, tail wagging. Mathison hopped off of Josh’s shoulder and sprang onto the dog’s back, like a miniature jockey.
Duncan already had the monitors live, and the perimeter sensors had switched on Camera 2. The front porch. They watched as two men in suits knocked on the door. Caucasian, mid-thirties, ties and sport coats too formal for the humidity.
“They’re holding,” Fran said, touching the screen, tapping the weapon bulges in their jackets.
Josh studied their footwear. Combat boots, incongruous to the tailored suits.
“Military?” Duncan asked.
The haircuts certainly were, which wasn’t a good omen.
“Smart guess. Or maybe they’re private. Or…”
Josh almost added, “something else” but he knew there was no need. His family was already thinking it.
He hit the camera’s microphone switch. The equipment room filled with the loud mating call of the coqui tree frog, which sounded a lot like digital beeping. Beneath that cacophony, katydids and crickets, and the far off screech and hoot of a barn owl.
“What next?” Duncan asked.
A fair question. In all their drills, they’d never prepared for someone knocking at the door at 3am.
“Now I press a button,” Josh said, “open up the trap door that sends them into the alligator pit.”
Duncan stared at Josh, his teenaged face confused. He rolled his eyes when he realized his stepfather was kidding. Again, Josh felt a stab of pride. Duncan could have been freaking out, but he understood how safe they were in the panic room. If needed, they could stay down there for a week. They had food and water, bunk beds, a toilet, a TV, and a computer. When they’d first built the room they’d slept down there as a family for several nights, making a party out of it so Duncan got used to the space. Popcorn and staying up late, watching movies and playing videogames. A safe area, not a scary one.
But his son’s question was on the money. If they’d been under attack—a highly conceivable possibility considering their past—the next step would be to call the police, followed by
the Feds. If that didn’t produce the desired results, the media was next.
So far, the VanCamps had lived up to their part of the deal and kept silent. If threatened, Josh had memorized all the numbers for all the major news outlets on the Big Island. He could burn several key people if forced to.
Josh didn’t want it to come to that. He and Fran had talked long and hard about bringing down those responsible for the genocide at Safe Haven, but in the end they opted to stay quiet for Duncan’s sake. If they told the press what they knew, there would be reprisals.
He stared at the two men on the monitor. Is that what this was? A team sent to silence them? If so, why were they knocking on the front door? Why not an entire commando team? Or an airstrike to take out the whole house?
None of the other monitors were live, meaning the proximity cameras hadn’t been tripped. Josh fired them up anyway to take a look.
No armed killers on the property.
No one at all.
Just the two guys on the front porch.
“I guess we ask them what they want,” Fran said.
Josh looked at his wife, saw that strength in her eyes he admired so much. Someone else might have been hysterical at this point. Crying or catatonic or ranting in fear. And he wouldn’t have blamed her if she reacted that way. But Fran was a rock, in many ways stronger than he was, and the love he felt for her right then gave him strength as well.
Josh hit the intercom button.
Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
Frank
Dr. Frank Belgium yawned, needing sleep. He was grading an assignment, trying to figure out how this student had gotten into advanced biology. The paper had something to do with the ozone layer and photosynthesis. But the experiment made no sense, and the conclusions were unfounded and in several cases outright fabrication.
Belgium took one of the student’s paragraphs and typed it verbatim into Google. After checking the results, he tried several more times with other sections.
“Dumb dumb dumb.”
The student had plagiarized published experiments. And to disguise his cheating, he’d mixed and matched several different papers, without any apparent logic or reason.
Belgium printed the Google file, stapled the pages to the paper, and wrote F on the top, along with, Scientists cite their sources. They also try to make sense.
He was about to move onto the next paper, but stopped himself and added, How did you get into advanced biology?
It was a fair question. But as he stared at his handwritten words, Belgium wondered, And how did I wind up teaching advanced biology?
A combination of bad decisions and bad luck. But it was better than many alternatives—
something Frank knew all about. And being a biology professor at a state college still allowed him to do some genetic research. Not nearly on the same level as he used to, but enough to keep his mind active and hands nimble.
He frowned at the title of the next paper, Plants’ Reactions to Household Chemicals, and was ready to delve in when someone knocked at the door.
Oh, Jesus. He’s found me.
Belgium thought about the gun he’d always meant to buy, the one he’d use to shoot himself if the past ever came calling. But he’d been afraid to buy the gun. Just as well, because as frightened as he was right now, he’d be just as afraid to use it on himself.
It had been a while since he’d had to confront this particular fear. There had been nightmares, of course. Plenty of them since leaving Samhain. He hadn’t spoken with his friends, Sun and Andy, since their wedding last March, and those were the only people he could talk to about their shared, terrifying experience. Because if he did mention it to anyone else, he’d be shot for treason.
Maybe that was the solution. If evil was at the door, Belgium could call the newspapers, spill everything, and then the US government would kill him. But the government was inefficient, bordering on inept, and would probably take days or weeks to get the job done. In the meantime, he’d be going through all sorts of unimaginable hell. Which made Belgium wonder, for the umpteenth time, why he hadn’t ever manned up and just bought a damned gun.
“Dr. Belgium! Dr. Frank Belgium! It’s the Secret Service.”
Belgium’s fear of demons vanished. But another fear climbed into its place. If this was the Secret Service, there could be only one reason they would call on him.
“The doctor isn’t here,” he called, trying to disguise his voice and make it sound lower. Which, in hindsight, was silly, because they didn’t know what he sounded like in the first place. “I am his his his… lover.” Belgium’s eyes cast around his desk, looking for a suitable name. He found it on his computer monitor, the logo. “His lover, Vizio. Why are you bothering me at such an hour?”
“If you don’t open the door, Doctor, we will break in.”
Belgium shuddered. He didn’t want to go anywhere with the Secret Service, because it wouldn’t be anywhere pleasant. And how could he be sure it was the Secret Service at all? The evil that Belgium had confronted in the past was wily.
“I am Vizio,” he said, lamely. “The Doctor is out of the country at a biology symposium. I I I am staying here to water his plants.”
The door busted inward.
Belgium gasped.
He was right.
It wasn’t the Secret Service.
Chicago, Illinois
Tom
Tom Mankowski squinted at his Kindle Fire, determined to read the screen without making the font size larger. The author, some guy with a bunch of letters after his name who supposedly was on Dr. Phil a few times, was writing about the importance of intimacy in a romantic relationship.
No shit. I didn’t need to spend $14.99 to figure that out.
The ebook was called Twenty Tips For Keeping Long Distance Relationships Fresh, and was the first self-help book Tom had ever bought. The price surprised him—he thought ebooks should be much cheaper than that—but the topic was important enough to warrant the purchase.
Unfortunately, the content so far had been less than revelatory.
Call and text often? Check.
Send gifts? Check.
Phone sex? They’d actually taken it once step further, and used video chat on Skype.
Visit when possible?
Tom looked to the right, to the empty side of the bed. Joan hadn’t been over in two weeks. And it had been two months since he’s visited her in LA. In the past hundred days he’d seen her only eight.
Tom smiled every time he got a text from her. It warmed his heart when Joan FedExed a screener DVD of some film she’d produced. And the site of her in a skimpy negligee, doing her best to talk dirty to him on his computer screen but constantly breaking character and giggling—well, it beat the hell out of Internet porn.
But it didn’t beat being with her. Nothing beat being with her.
Tom was lonely. And the loneliness was made worse because he had someone who could fill that void. But she wouldn’t quit her job to move to Chicago, and he wouldn’t quit his to move to L.A.
He flipped the electronic page and read, Plan a surprise visit.
Tom had some vacation days he needed to burn or else he’d lose them. But Joan was in the middle of a shoot, and that meant 80 hour work weeks for her. Still, he could fly to California and be there for her at the end of her day, if only to sleep next to her for a few nights. It was better than lying in bed alone, reading an overpriced book by some PhD with a startling grasp of the obvious.
He blinked, yawned, and damned his pride, pressing the Aa setting on the screen to enlarge the font to a size 8. It beat getting eyeglasses. Then he adjusted his pillow and settled in to read about playing online games together.
Yeah. That’s what Joan would be into. Us fragging each other in an Xbox Halo death match. How the hell did this guy get on Dr. Phil?
But curiosity got the best of Tom, and he exited the book and began to surf the net, seeing if there were any online games about fifteenth century F
rance, which Joan did have an interest in. He was flipping through Google pages when there was a knock at his door.
Tom’s first thought was the gun on his nightstand. As a Homicide cop, Tom had made enemies. And some of them were real doozies.
His second thought was, Maybe Joan is reading this same stupid book and is surprising me with a visit.
She’d called earlier that day, but it had been hours ago. Had she phoned from the airport, just before hopping on the red-eye?
Tom swung his legs out of bed, grabbed the terrycloth bathrobe on the floor (a gift from Joan) and stuck the Sig Saur in his pocket, first making sure there was one in the chamber. He walked out of the bedroom softly, on the balls of his feet, and traversed the short hallway to his apartment door. After an altercation with a very bad and very powerful man several years ago, Tom had improved his home security. The door was bulletproof, with a reinforced security bar. It was the same setup he’d installed at Joan’s house, and nothing short of a charging rhino could get through it.
Tom took a peek through the peephole, and saw two men in dark suits standing in the hallway. Caucasian, thirties, blank expressions. He noted how their jackets bulged, indicating they were carrying.
He palmed his Sig and said, “Yeah?”
The man on the right said, “FBI.”
They both held up badges and ID cards. Tom had seen a few in his day, and they looked legitimate enough. But you could buy anything online these days.
“What do you want?”
“It’s about your partner. Roy Lewis.”
Tom hadn’t expected that.
“What about him?”
“We believe he’s in trouble, Detective Mankowski. Can we come in?”
Tom didn’t like it. It was 2am, a highly abnormal time for the Feebies to drop in. But they both shared the classic, bored expression of government drones, and Roy was like a brother to Tom. Keeping his gun at his side, he went through the complicated process of unlatching the door and letting them in.
“The gun is hardly necessary, Detective,” said the same one, eying Tom’s piece.
J.A. Konrath / Jack Kilborn Trilogy - Three Scary Thriller Novels (Origin, The List, Haunted House) Page 53