“You’re all I need, Mal.”
She kissed his cheek. A kiss of pity, not love.
Mal felt his ears get hot. He endured the kiss without flinching away.
“Take a few, Mal. Zonk out on the plane.”
Mal nodded. But he wouldn’t. Deb couldn’t drive the rental car, which meant he had to, and alprazolam abuse and driving didn’t mix. So when Deb opened the bottle for him, Mal swallowed one, just to take the edge off, and then they shuffled into the terminal.
With an hour before boarding time, they stopped at the Burgh Sportz Bar in the Airmall. Deb had a chicken salad. Mal had a burger. When the food arrived it looked decent enough, but Mal’s stomach was sour and he picked at his French fries while watching Deb inhale her food. She’d talked him into coming to this stupid experiment, and even seemed optimistic about it. Bless her little heart, Deb considered this trip a hybrid of vacation and adventure.
Mal felt differently. He didn’t like confronting his fears in therapy, and he knew he’d abhor being purposely frightened. But the thing that bothered him most was being allowed to bring weapons.
What kind of government experiment allows the participants to be armed? What safeguards were in place to prevent someone from getting seriously hurt?
Mal had packed the gun in their check-in luggage, and both he and Deb had taken shooting lessons. But in fright’s grasp, Mal wouldn’t trust himself to hit a bus from a meter away. What if he fired wildly and hurt someone? What if he shot Deb? What kind of insane tests were going to be conducted on them that required firearms?
“Aren’t you hungry?”
He shook his head. Deb took that as an invitation to tear his burger in half and start munching. Mal stared at her, marveling at her resiliency. He wanted to tell her how much he loved her. How proud he was of her. She was two levels away from becoming a black belt. A double amputee, slowly becoming a karate master. Who could have ever guessed all she could accomplish? But instead of gushing his admiration, he thought of that CEO jerk hitting on her, and how she seemed to eat it up.
She’s going to figure out I’m a coward, and leave me.
Mal didn’t think he’d be able to handle that. But he was sure it was coming.
Someone bumped the back of Mal’s chair, and he turned to see a teenager standing next to the table. Chubby, almond-eyed, protruding tongue. Down Syndrome.
“What’s wrong with your hand?” the teen said, pointing at Mal’s prosthesis.
“I lost it. This one is made of rubber.”
“How did you lose it?”
A madman strapped me to a table and cut it off with a scalpel while I begged for him to stop.
“An accident,” Mal said. He looked at Deb, who was staring at the boy with wide eyes. While the teen was probably harmless, he was bringing up old memories. Bad memories.
“Where are your parents?” Mal asked, searching around for the child’s caretaker.
“You’re a freak,” the boy said.
Mal blinked. “What?”
“You’re a freak and you’re going to die.” He looked at Deb. “And so are you, lady.”
Mal began to stand up. “Look, kid—”
But the teenager stepped back and pointed, then began to yell, “FREAKS GONNA DIE! FREAKS GONNA DIE!”
Mal turned to his wife. Her face had lost all color, and she looked ready to throw up.
“FREAKS GONNA DIE!”
Again Mal looked for the boy’s father or mother, but instead he only saw people staring. Not only those in the restaurant, but passersby had also stopped to watch.
“FREAKS GONNA DIE!”
Finally an older woman came rushing over, tugging at the boy’s arm, saying “Calm down, Petey, calm down.” She offered Mal and Deb a quick, soulless I’m sorry, and then managed to pull her son away from their table as he continued to shout.
“FREAKS GONNA DIE!”
The woman tugged the child further into the terminal, until his voice melded in with the rest of the airport noise. In the restaurant, the clinking of silverware on plates resumed, and conversations picked up to levels prior to the interruption.
Mal, his whole body flushed and twitching, turned to his wife.
“You okay, babe?”
Deb’s face pinched, and then she vomited all over the table.
Solidarity, South Carolina
Forenzi
Dr. Emil Forenzi sat on the mattress—the one piece of furniture in his bedroom that wasn’t an antique—and squinted at the Bruno Magli loafers he’d just put on. There was a stain on the toe. He pulled it off and licked his thumb, rubbing off a reddish-brown streak.
Blood.
Forenzi couldn’t remember wearing the shoes in the lab area, and his mind wandered as to elsewhere he might have trod in bodily fluids. His revere was interrupted by a knock on the bedroom door.
“Enter,” he said, dropping the shoe next to the bed.
Sykes came in, holding a sheaf of papers. He silently presented them to Forenzi. It was reports on their guests.
Tom Mankowski, the cop, had just arrived at the airport. Excellent. He would make a sturdy test subject.
The amputees, Mallory and Deborah Dieter, had boarded their plane in Pittsburg. Forenzi had high hopes for them.
Dr. Frank Belgium and Sara Randhurst were due at Butler House any minute. Forenzi’s intel provided an interesting tidbit.
“They’re sharing a cab?” he said to Sykes. “Do they know each other?”
“I have no idea, sir.”
Forenzi glanced at him, caught a glimpse of the man’s sharp dentata.
“Do you mind if I ask you a personal question, Sykes?”
“Nothing is personal to me, sir.”
“Do you ever bite your tongue while eating?”
“As much as anyone else.”
Sykes didn’t elaborate. Forenzi flipped through more pages, seeing who else was attending, and frowned at the lack of a dossier on the VanCamps.
“Josh and Fran VanCamp didn’t confirm?”
“No, sir.”
Forenzi clucked his tongue. That was a shame. They would have been ideal.
No matter. This weekend would proceed without them, and it would be a success nonetheless.
“Have you spoken to your team?” he asked Sykes.
“Yes, sir. We’re ready.”
“My team?”
“I checked on them half an hour ago. Proceeding as scheduled.”
“Dinner?”
“Planned for seven, as requested.”
“Will we have those little Swedish meatballs? Those are wonderful.”
“Those are listed on the menu, sir.”
Forenzi nodded. In the hallway, floorboards creaked.
Both Forenzi and Sykes turned to look. No one was there.
“The ghosts are getting anxious,” Forenzi mused.
The paranormal history of Butler House was well-documented, and Forenzi had lost count of the strange phenomenon he’d encountered since coming here. Doors closing by themselves. Sharp drops in temperature. Strange odors. Creepy sounds. Last week, he was awoken from deep sleep, absolutely positive someone had been at the foot of his bed, watching him
“Do you believe in ghosts, Sykes?”
The man shrugged.
“So you aren’t afraid of the supernatural?”
“I’m not afraid of anything, sir.”
“Of course you’re not. Dismissed.”
The man left, closing the door behind him. Not much of a conversationalist, Sykes. But he had other areas of expertise.
Forenzi stood up and looked into the ornate, full-body mirror hanging above the bureau. He laced a tie through his collar and fussed with a half Windsor knot, trying to get it even. As he fought the fabric, he noticed something moving in the lower corner of the mirror.
The dust ruffle of the bed.
Forenzi looked down, behind him, and the rustling stopped.
Mice? Rats?
Someth
ing else?
And what happened to my shoe?
Forenzi searched the floor, turning in a full circle, looking for the loafer with the blood stain. He could have sworn he’d dropped it on the floor before Sykes came in.
Under the bed?
The doctor got on his hands and knees, ready to lift up the dust ruffle. But something gave him pause.
Behind the dust ruffle, something was making a sound. A distinct, recognizable sound.
Chewing.
I hear chewing.
A streak of panic flashed through Forenzi, and he crabbed backward, away from the bed. Then he quickly scanned the room for some sort of weapon. His eyes settled on an old, cast iron stove. Atop the bundle of kindling next to it was a fireplace poker.
Forenzi got to his feet and snatched the poker, turning back to the bed. Then he held his breath, listening.
The chewing was now accompanied by a slurping noise.
What the hell is that?
He knelt next to the bed, firmly gripping the poker with his right hand, reaching toward the dust ruffle with his left—
—and hesitated.
Do I really want to know what’s under there?
The chewing and slurping sounds stopped.
Forenzi continued to hold his breath, focusing on the silence.
After ten seconds, he let out a sigh, already starting to convince himself he’d imagined the whole thing.
Then he heard something else.
Scratching.
From under the bed. As if something was raking its nails on the floorboards.
Acting fast, before he lost his nerve, Forenzi lifted up the dust ruffle and jammed the poker underneath, flailing it around.
He didn’t hit anything. And the scratching sound stopped.
Forenzi leaned down, squinting under the bed. But it was too dark to see anything.
Moving the poker slowly, he swept it across the floor, kicking up vast colonies of dust clods. When his poker touched something solid, he retracted quickly—
—pulling out his missing loafer.
He stared at it, trying to make sense of what he saw. The shoe was damp with a viscous goo, and the toe had a large hole in it, surrounded by what appeared to be…
Bite marks.
Charleston, South Carolina
Tom
Fetzer Correctional Institution was known as a Level 3 prison. It housed the worst of the worst. Violent offenders and lifers did their time here, as did the death row inmates, up until their appeals ran out. In order to arrange a last-minute visit with one of its prisoners, Tom had to call in a big favor with his old boss, a retired Chicago Homicide Lieutenant named Daniels. She’d pulled a few strings and gotten him an audience with possibly the most depraved and sadistic murderer in this nation’s history, Augustus Torble. The millionaire heir who bought Butler House then tortured several women to death.
Tom drove the rental SUV to the perimeter fence, and an armed guard looked at Tom’s badge and checked his name on the visitor roster. Tom was allowed through the double fence, electrified and topped with razor wire, and he drove past one of the prison’s five gun towers. The main building was a red brick monstrosity that was among the drabbest, ugliest buildings Tom had ever seen. It had a flat façade devoid of any embellishments, save for barred windows and an arched entryway with ugly steel doors.
He parked in the visitor lot, and walked down a cracked, sun-baked sidewalk to the entrance. It was overcast and hot, the gray sky looking like it was ready to rain, but the humidity seemed strangely absent. Tom was buzzed in after being directed via intercom to look up into the security camera, providing them with video footage of his face.
Inside, he was met by two more armed guards, who led him without fanfare down a harshly lit hallway to a waiting room, where he was told to have a seat. Tom parked his butt on a steel bench bolted to the floor, and watched the clock on the wall—a clock housed in wire mesh. It was much more humid in the prison than outside. In fact, Tom almost immediately began to perspire, and wished he’d had a handkerchief to blot his forehead.
When two minutes passed, a dour woman in a frumpy pantsuit entered and frowned at him. She was accompanied by a guard.
“I’m the assistant warden, Miss Potter. You couldn’t have come at a worse time.” Her southern lilt making the last word sound like tahm. “The prisoner is being readied for transport.”
“Where is he going?” Tom asked.
“Out of my hair. Prisoner transfers are common, and I’m not always told the particulars.”
“Do you know the reason?”
“I wasn’t informed.” The way her mouth pursed told Tom that this annoyed her. “What is it you want with the prisoner?”
“I have some questions to ask him. About Butler House.”
Potter snorted. She removed a handkerchief from her jacket pocket and blotted the sweat on her neck. “That house is a blight on the beautiful state of South Carolina. Needs to be razed flat, if you ask me.”
“What have you heard about the house, Ma’am?”
“You mean, is it haunted? I deal in the real world, Detective. I see enough hatred and evil in men’s souls without having to blame the supernatural for it. But I’ll tell you something. I’ve had several interactions with Mr. Augustus Torble. And if there was ever a man possessed by demons, it’s him. Just last week he had an altercation with another prisoner over the last bag of potato chips. Mr. Torble bit the other prisoner’s finger off. When questioned about the incident he had to be restrained, because…”
Her voice drifted off, and Tom could detect a bit of flush in her cheeks.
“Ma’am?” he asked.
She blew out a stiff breath. “Because Mr. Torble was noticeably aroused by the incident, and kept playing with himself while being questioned.”
Tom kept his face neutral, professional.
“Has Torble had a lot of incidents like that?”
“More than his share. The other prisoners are afraid of him. Are you armed?”
Tom had left his gun in his luggage. “No, Ma’am.”
“Regulations insist on a pat down, to prevent weapons or other contraband from being passed to the prisoner. Would you mind standing up and raising your arms, Detective?”
Tom did as instructed, and the guard did a thorough frisking, going so far as to check each of Tom’s pockets.
“I’m to understand you’ve dealt with murderers before,” Potter said. “Your boss, Lieutenant Daniels, spoke highly of you. She apparently knows some very important people. Normally a spur of the moment visitation request from an out of town police officer would be denied. Especially during the time-sensitive and delicate procedure of transfer.”
“I’ll be sure to let Lt. Daniels know how hospitable and accommodating you and you staff have been.”
He didn’t bother to tell her Jack was retired, and the assistant warden’s efforts to get a pat on the head were likely for nothing.
“You have ten minutes,” Potter said.
“Has anyone told him I’m coming?”
“No. Only that someone wants to speak to him. But Torble is used to that. People are always coming by to pick his brain about something. Cops, psychiatrists, reporters. He gets so many visitors he could use a secretary. Or a press agent.” She turned to leave. “Don’t touch the prisoner, don’t pass anything to the prisoner. Your entire visit will be monitored and recorded. And Detective…”
“Ma’am?”
“Watch yourself. This one is as bad as they come.”
Potter nodded a goodbye, and the guard led Tom down another corridor and into a room with a reinforced door. Inside, an older man was sitting at a steel table attached to the floor like the one Tom had recently used. He wore an orange prison jumpsuit, and leg shackles, locked to a steel U bolt in the floor. His hands were also shackled to a thin chain encircling his waist, preventing him from raising his arms.
His gray hair was wild, uncombed, his face sporting three
days of stubble. He was thin to the point of gaunt, and though his records stated he was sixty-two years old, he didn’t look much older than fifty. The killer’s eyes were deep set, dark, and had a glint to them. Intelligence, insanity, mirth, or maybe a combination of all three.
“Mr. Torble, my name is Detective Mankowski. Thank you for your time.”
“Call me Gus,” he said. His voice was unusually deep, and decidedly less southern than Miss Potter’s. “What’s your name?”
“I prefer to go by Detective. Or Mr. Mankowksi.”
“Have a seat, Detective. We have lots to talk about.”
Tom sat across the steel table from him. The killer crouched down a little, like a coil ready to spring. It was just as humid as the waiting room, and Tom continued to sweat. Torble, on the other hand, appeared cool and comfortable.
“I’d like to talk about Butler House.”
Torble smiled. “Good times. It has a torture chamber, you know. I called it the Happy Room. I had a hooker down there once, tied to a rack. Used boiling lard on her. Poured it all over her body, inch by inch. Did it every day for weeks. Put an IV in her to keep her hydrated. You know the smell of breakfast sausage, frying up in the pan? That’s what she smelled like. I swear, as often as not I’d be drooling after a session with her.”
Tom had prepared himself for this. Sadists like Torble got off on their ability to manipulate, to shock. So Tom forced his facial muscles to remain lax, and made sure his breathing was slow and steady. Reacting to psychopaths only egged them on.
“Did you ever do anything like that before buying Butler House?” he asked.
“You mean, did I skin kitty cats when I was a toddler? Or rough up whores?”
“Anything of that nature,” Tom said blandly.
Torble’s lips pressed crookedly together, and he looked off to the right, a poker tell that someone is searching for a truthful memory. “Nope. Can’t say that I had.”
“Did you ever notice anything odd about the house while you lived there?”
Torble studied him. “This is about the house? Not about trying to pin some old, unsolved crime on me?”
“I’m curious about the house.”
“You mean you’re curious if it’s haunted.”
J.A. Konrath / Jack Kilborn Trilogy - Three Scary Thriller Novels (Origin, The List, Haunted House) Page 59