Don't Read After Dark: Keep the lights on while reading these! (A McCray Horror Collection)

by McCray, Carolyn

Another scream rent the air as a battered and bleeding woman ran across the screen. Derek felt nauseated as the film bounced and shimmied. But at least the screams were emanating from the film, and not a real-life massacre.

  Score one for the night.

  However, just because they had breezed in this far did not mean that there weren’t a half a dozen AK-47s in there—with perps ready to use them.

  He raised an eyebrow at Fred, the question clear. Are you ready? Fred gulped twice, and then nodded back. He guessed that was going to have to do. Derek mouthed, one ... two ... on three.

  They burst into the room. Derek swung his gun toward the wide-eyed projectionist.

  “FBI! Stop the film, and back away from the projector!”

  The projectionist, a kid really, not more than twenty, held his hands up in surrender. He shook the whole time as his eyes darted to the audience, who acted as if two FBI agents hadn’t just burst into the room. A sheen of sweat broke out on the kid’s lip.

  That was the look of someone ready to do something really stupid. The kid grabbed the projector and shoved it toward them.

  As the projector grazed his hip, Derek swore under his breath. Like he said—stupid. Fred dodged the projector as the image on-screen lurched and fell away from the grimy screen. Derek lunged for the projectionist as pandemonium erupted. Snapped out of their trance, men and women began to scatter like roaches when the lights were turned on, creating the perfect cover for the projectionist to grab his bag of film reels and bolt. Derek threaded his way through the crowd, never taking his eyes off the kid.

  Fred, on the other hand, was like a billy goat, jumping over boxes and sprinting toward the projectionist. Seems like his partner might have been a hurdler in another life. Derek, on the other hand, had a sharp pain on his left side—a gentle reminder that maybe he shouldn’t have eaten two brats just before a perp rabbited on them.

  “Stop!” Fred yelled—with more baritone than Derek had heard before.

  Of course, the kid didn’t obey him, but that was beside the point.

  Fred actually had some game. Would the surprises never end?

  * * *

  Fred ran full tilt, being sure to breathe through his nose and out through his mouth. For such a skinny little jerk, the guy was fast. Guess adrenaline helped even the scrawny. Only the faint glow of the moon lit the way ahead. The air was stale in his lungs. Glass crunched underfoot.

  Fred followed the projectionist up a rickety staircase that had seen better days. He had to dodge a few holes in the steps. When he looked up, the kid was gone.

  Suddenly, the projectionist jumped out of the shadows, slamming the bag filled with metal reels into Fred’s face. Thrown off-balance, Fred careened over the railing. His hands snatched at the wood, but came up with only empty air. He tried to turn his body so that his shoulder took the hit, but he just didn’t have the time. Slamming into the floor, Fred felt his ankle buckle under him just before a loud snap.

  Holy mother of …

  Fred bit his lip, not wanting Mr. Uber-Agent to see him cry.

  Derek aborted the pursuit and charged back down the steps. “You okay?”

  Fuck, no! was the answer Fred wanted to give, but he held it together. “Yeah, just my ankle.”

  They both looked down at the unnatural angle of his foot.

  “It’s broken.” Derek stated the obvious.

  “Go,” Fred encouraged. “Get the SOB.”

  While Fred did want the projectionist to pay for his crimes, he also really wanted Derek to get going so that he could nurse his ankle in peace. But clearly, the senior agent was loath to leave a man down.

  “I’ll call for backup. Now go!”

  * * *

  That wasn’t just a break. It was a compound fracture. What could Derek do but coo to Fred? No, it was time to catch the idiot who had done this.

  “Be right back,” Derek said as he turned on his heel and took the stairs two at a time. It was just a damn movie, not the Hope Diamond. Was it really worth assaulting a government agent over? An annoying agent, mind you, but a special agent, nonetheless.

  Derek paused at a doorway one floor up. He gave his eyes a minute to adjust before he entered the darkened interior. Cautiously, he took one step, and then another. The projectionist tried the same maneuver—only Derek caught the bag mid-swing. That crap may have worked once, but twice? Not on Derek’s watch. He dragged the kid toward him until their noses were touching. Derek could smell the fear seeping out of the kid’s pores.

  “Are we having fun yet?” Derek asked.

  The kid cocked his arm back. Before Derek could untangle his hand from the gym bag, the projectionist punched Derek in the nose. Derek stumbled back a step, surprised to be caught off guard. That’s what six months away from D.C. got you. He swiped the back of his hand under his nose and got a smear of blood for his effort.

  “That’s it!” Derek ground his teeth. “No more Mr. Nice Guy!”

  The projectionist must have believed him, because he tried to rabbit again. Before he could get a head of steam, Derek lunged and tackled him at the base of the stairs. The floor groaned under the unwelcome weight. A crack announced the first floorboard breaking. A pop announced the second and the third. Then the floor dropped out, and they plummeted to the ground floor.

  Luckily they were horizontal during their plunge, and Derek’s shoulder took the brunt of the impact. Still. Damn.

  A cloud of dust and dirt hung in the air. The look on Fred’s face when they landed not more than a foot away from him was nearly comical. Derek would have laughed if every inch of his body weren’t shrieking its displeasure.

  Fanning the dust out of his face, Fred said, “Nice job.”

  Derek sat up, straddling the kid, his knee jammed into his back while he yanked the projectionist’s arms, causing him to grunt. A little payback for trashing two agents.

  Hearing the satisfying click of the cuffs, Derek read him his rights. “Moron, you are under arrest for the theft and intent to sell for profit ...”

  The projectionist sobbed. “I wasn’t going to sell it,” he said. His snot and tears left streaks of dirt on his face.

  “I was only gonna show it and return it!”

  “Sure, and I’ve got some dry land in the Everglades,” Derek grumbled as he pulled the projectionist to his feet. “You’ve got the right—”

  “No. I’m serious,” the kid interrupted, choking on a hiccup. “Ask anyone invited!”

  Derek spun the projectionist around to face him.

  “Why would you risk hard time to watch a stupid movie?” Derek asked. Not that he really cared, but he had to ask. None of this made any sense. At least, not enough for him to miss the Chargers game.

  “No, you don’t understand. This is Terror in the Trees!” he exclaimed, as if that explained it all.

  Derek glanced at Fred to see if he had the slightest clue as to what this kid was talking about. Judging by the frown, Fred had no idea either.

  The projectionist tried to explain, his eyes ricocheting between Derek and Fred. “They pulled the film off the festival circuit, and it won’t be seen again until it goes into wide release.”

  Still confused, Derek asked, “Why not just wait, and pay your fifteen bucks?”

  Like every other law-abiding citizen.

  “They’re gonna cut seven whole minutes out! The best parts! This was the only way to see the whole thing—the directors’ true vision!” Excitement shone in the kid’s eyes as he continued without taking a breath. “The Baxter brothers have opened a new world of terror!”

  “Watch out,” Fred said, smirking. “I think he’s going religious on you.”

  Derek shook his head. He didn’t give a damn if it was the freakin’ reincarnated Marx brothers. Derek had seen too many scenes go down so much worse than tonight. Chasing this punk around the crumbling dump of a building could have killed them all. And for what? A stupid movie called Birds in the Trees, or whatever the hell it was.
/>   “You definitely have the right to remain silent ...”

  Please, God, let him remain silent.

  CHAPTER 2

  Derek paused at the field office door. He knew he had to go in there. No agent fell through a floor and collared a perp without a certain amount of paperwork. But still, he was reluctant. He knew the looks that he would get.

  The quiet, yet insidious, whisper … “Another agent injured on Boulder’s watch.” The other agents would huddle in clumps of three or four, talking amongst themselves until Derek would walk by, and then they would all clam up and watch him with those superior looks laced with pity.

  How far the mighty have fallen.

  And after tonight, they wouldn’t be too far off. Derek pulled a bottle of Advil out of his pocket and shook out four pills. He tossed them in his mouth, swallowing them dry. The bitter taste clung to his tongue. He deserved it for letting Fred take the lead. Sure he could jump like a gazelle, but he didn’t have the damn sense to avoid a gym bag in the face. What if the projectionist had a gun? What if there had been a family squatting in the building? What if they had a little girl?

  Derek braced himself, tightening his muscles and squeezing the memory from his vision.

  He breathed in deeply. The projectionist didn’t have a gun. There was no family scurrying for cover. There was no little girl in the crossfire.

  But the rumors weren’t going to die down just because he stayed on this side of the door.

  Let’s get this over with.

  Derek let out a breath as he pushed the door open. A phone buzzed on a nearby desk. Three agents gathered around a dry-erase board, scribbling notes until they noticed Derek. Then their hands dangled at their sides, giving him the once-over.

  Go ahead, Derek thought. Pretend it could never happen to you. Just wait.

  Across the room, Fred reclined in his chair. His leg, now in a cast, was propped on his desk. A female agent sat next to him. Her chin rested in her hand, while Fred gestured, making a point about something. Derek could only imagine the embellished story that Fred was telling. By the admiring look on the agent’s face, it must be a good one. At least someone was enjoying the aftermath.

  He might as well let people think what they wanted. It wasn’t going to change Derek’s routine.

  “Hate to interrupt,” Derek said to the two lovebirds as he tossed a file on Fred’s desk. “Here ya go. Have fun filling out the paperwork.”

  Fred looked up. “Excuse me? Who’s the guy who broke his ankle and spent all night in the ER?”

  The female agent looked between Derek and Fred and beat a hasty retreat. Guess she didn’t want to stick around for the fireworks.

  “And who’s the guy who sat in the ER with your whining ass all night, and nearly broke every bone collaring the perp? You know the rule. If I catch ’em, you write ’em up.”

  “Derek,” a voice called from behind them, “may I see you for a minute?”

  Derek turned to see his supervisor, Maddie Greer, retreat into her office.

  Great. Derek tipped his head back, rolling his eyes to the ceiling. Time to get his ass chewed.

  “Ha! That’s what you get,” Fred smirked, pointing his finger at Derek.

  “And Meyers,” Greer shouted from her office, “paperwork on my desk within the hour!”

  Derek inclined his head to Fred. “What goes around … ”

  Fred frowned, although Derek was pretty sure that he had gotten the short end of the stick. Greer didn’t call people in for a chat. They didn’t call her office “Greer’s Grill” for nothing.

  Greer sat behind her desk, flipping through a file as her slender fingers tapped impatiently. Everything in her office screamed organized to the point of OCD—from the stack of files neatly arranged on her desk to the sleek ponytail she wore like a badge. There was nothing in the office to give the impression that a female occupied it. No trendy prints on the wall or vases of flowers on the bookshelves. Not even a family photo.

  Derek didn’t know whether to respect her for that, or feel sorry that she had to work so hard to obscure her femininity. No matter the changes over the years, the FBI was still a boys’ club. The whisper mill had plenty to say about her, too. Like how she’d gotten down on her knees for her promotion. But Derek didn’t buy it. The woman was too damn good at her job. She could sniff out bullshit a mile away, and she had always been straight and to-the-point with him.

  Like now, he assumed.

  “Is there a problem, Greer?” You know, besides the whole I-nearly-killed-another-partner thing, Derek thought, but decided it was probably better not to say it.

  “None for me. But you, on the other hand ... ” She frowned as she angled her head toward a leather chair in the corner.

  Derek tensed. The suits cleared him back in D.C., but that didn’t mean his past wasn’t nipping at his heels. Whatever crap came his way, he was just going to have to take it.

  “I need you to escort those film reels back to LA,” Greer stated.

  “Your wish is my command ...” Derek replied, still not sure what was happening. Greer’s ominous tone did not match the fact he had to get up a little earlier tomorrow to miss the morning rush-hour traffic.

  Greer lifted an eyebrow, crossing her arms. “Yeah. And then you get to hang out in La La Land and finish the investigation.”

  “What?” Derek asked, still not tracking Greer’s odd mood. “Reels were missing. Reels are found. Case closed. Or, did I miss something while I was at the ER with Meyers?”

  “No,” Greer said as she pulled out a stack of magazine covers. “I’m talking about this whole Terror in the Trees phenomenon.”

  “Phenomenon. You are kidding me, right? Am I being hazed here, or something?”

  Derek looked behind him just to make sure.

  She pushed the stack toward him. “Read the covers.”

  “Baxter brothers terrorize Indie Film Circuit. Killer movie claims six lives. Are some movies too scary? Joe Bob Briggs dies doing what he loves—screening horror films.”

  Derek cut a glance at Greer before continuing. “Terror in the theater! Entire audience found dead! Including Justin Bieber.”

  He chuckled, although he really was not amused. “Since when does the National Enquirer become evidence? Not that a lot of people wouldn’t be glad that Bieber Fever is over.”

  A blush stained Greer’s cheeks as she pulled the magazine toward her. “Sorry. That one’s mine.” In a rare moment of embarrassment, she had to clear her throat before continuing. “But the rest are legit.”

  “My question still stands,” Derek stated. “What’s any of this got to do with my conducting an investigation?”

  “Forensics found the cause of death to be natural causes—each and every one of them,” Greer explained. “They were, quite literally, frightened to death.”

  Derek crossed his arms over his chest. “By a movie? That is the story you are going with?”

  “That’s what a certain field investigator I know is going to find out.” Greer pushed her chair away from her desk and handed him the file.

  “You and the film are expected in Hollywood by 9:00 a.m. tomorrow.”

  Derek stood there, dumbfounded. Either that, or the pain meds that the ER doctor gave him finally kicked in. He was supposed to investigate a killer movie?

  Seriously, where was Ashton Kutcher? “Let someone else in the LA office take the case,” he said. “They live for this kind of stuff.”

  Which is why he wanted his post in San Diego. All the beaches and half the freaks.

  “Can’t,” Greer said, handing the file to him. “They’re coordinating with the Secret Service for a large presidential fund-raiser in Santa Barbara this weekend.”

  By the set of her lips, there was no arguing with Greer. If she needed him in LA, then she needed him in LA. Besides, it would get him away from Fred for a few days.

  “Great. Fine.” He took the file from Greer and leaned over, despite every single one of his j
oints complaining, and hefted the bag of reels over his shoulder. He turned toward the door.

  “Oh. There’s one other little detail you should know before you head out.”

  Derek paused, one hand on the door handle. “Why am I fairly certain that I’m not going to like this?”

  “Temple Studios is graciously lending us their PR exec to assist you.”

  “Whatever,” Derek mumbled, as he twisted the knob. A civilian assigned as his partner. This just kept getting better. Next, he would find out that he was on coffee-run duty for the next month.

  “Um, Derek ...” Greer cleared her throat, followed by a lengthy pause. “It’s Jill Connor.”

  Derek swung back around. He couldn’t breathe. Actually, it felt like he had forgotten how to breathe. Eyes wide, he shook his head. “Can’t be. She’s in Vancouver.”

  “Not anymore. Looks like she made it to the majors.” Greer stepped toward Derek, holding up her hand. Her expression reflected the concern in her voice. She looked like the beautiful woman she must be when she wasn’t busting everyone’s balls. “I know that this could get awkward ...”

  Awkward? Get awkward? They had passed awkward three years ago and headed into impossible-no-way-no-how-land.

  “Derek,” Greer said tentatively, an undertone of sympathy coloring her words. “I heard from the … you know … the rumors … that you got left at the altar.”

  “It was the rehearsal dinner,” Derek blurted out. “Okay, it’s bad enough, but it was the damn rehearsal dinner.”

  Jesus, did everyone know his most private, personal issues? And if they did, could they please get the facts straight?

  Greer pulled back into herself, sitting down behind the desk.

  “Whichever. Just be professional, all right?”

  Actually, Greer’s no-nonsense tone helped him pull it together. “Always.”

  Derek gritted his teeth and left the office. His hand shook, though, as he shut the door. His face a stoic mask, Derek walked past the half a dozen or so agents who had gathered, hoping to hear a dressing-down. He even strode directly past Fred.

  Still apparently high on pain meds, Fred laughed. “So, what did Greer want? Is she making you do the paperwork?”