Chaser

by J. A. Konrath

  Brilliant idea, McGlade.

  Nothing could possibly go wrong.

  PLASTIC

  He shuts off his computer and smiles.

  It’s a little like tipping my hand.

  Harry McGlade knows I’m onto him.

  But he doesn’t know everything.

  He can’t possibly know everything.

  I can take my time. Pick my moment.

  He’ll be armed.

  He might even have bodyguards.

  It doesn’t matter.

  I’m going to make an example of him.

  I’m going to do something so awful that no one else will ever dare come after me.

  Ready or not, Harry. Here I come.

  TOM

  He didn’t like it when Stallone watched them have sex.

  The Doberman seemed a little too interested, cocking its ears up whenever Tom or Joan made a sound. The guard dog also stared intently, as if trying to lock eyes with Tom.

  “Go check the house,” Tom ordered.

  The dog dutifully got up and padded out of the bedroom.

  Joan stopped what she was doing and opened her eyes. “You’re distracted.”

  “Our dog is a pervert.”

  “Our dog is not a pervert.”

  “He stares at me. It’s like I’m wrestling and he’s waiting for me to tag him in.”

  Joan got off her knees and laid alongside Tom, her head propped up on her hand. “What’s the problem?”

  “I don’t know. We take him back to the trainer. Maybe there’s a class to stop doggy voyeurism.”

  “It’s not the dog. You haven’t been into this at all.”

  “I’m into it.”

  “You were in my mouth, Tom. I can tell if you’re into it.”

  “It was Stallone.”

  “It’s not Stallone. We’ve had sex with him sitting on the bed.”

  “We never did.”

  “We did. You didn’t notice. Because you were into it.”

  She’s right. I’ve got a beautiful naked woman, the love of my life, trying to make me happy, and all I’m thinking about is Erinyes.

  “Is it Erinyes?”

  “Do you read minds?”

  “Of course.” Joan put her palm on Tom’s forehead, making a goofy face like she was in a trance, and spoke in a baritone. “Right now, I’m reading your mind. Do you know what I see?”

  Tom knew this joke. “Nothing. It’s empty.”

  “Nothing,” Joan monotoned. “It’s empty.”

  He laughed anyway. “Is this what you do to Oscar winners when they’re acting mopey?”

  “I don’t have to,” Joan said. “They’re always into it when I’m blowing them.”

  Tom put his arm around her, hugged her close. “It’s more than Erinyes. I talked to Jack today.”

  “Is she still a broken shell barely able to keep from snapping?”

  “Yes. And that’s the thing. I don’t want to be that. I don’t want to have psychos chasing me until I’m in my fifties.”

  “So you want to avoid life?”

  A beep startled Tom.

  Stallone. Going out his doggy door to prowl the grounds.

  “No, Joan, I don’t want to avoid life. I want to avoid all the bad things in life.”

  “Hiding isn’t a good evolutionary strategy, Tom.”

  “Works for chameleons.”

  “This is about more than just Erinyes. It’s about The Nine.”

  Tom took his arm back and turned onto his side, facing away from Joan. “I don’t want to discuss that.”

  “You never want to discuss that. Whenever I bring it up, or Roy brings it up, or Bert… when was the last time you talked to Bert? Or Abe?”

  “Bert’s doing fine. We text.”

  “Abe?”

  “Abe gets in touch when he wants to borrow money. He started a computer anti-virus company, and just got sued because his freeware program was full of viruses.”

  Joan snorted. “Sounds like Abe. Do they ever mention The Nine?”

  “No. The only one who mentions it is you, Joan.”

  “They’re out there.”

  “I know. But right now I’ve got other shit on my plate.”

  Like putting off starting a family because there is so much shit on my plate.

  “Is it about having kids?”

  “Jesus. You do read minds.”

  “You don’t want to start a family because there are bad things in the world that need to be fixed first.”

  “Seriously, you should go to the corner store and buy a lottery ticket.”

  Joan snaked her hand around his waist and hooked a leg over his. “It’s not like you’re hard to read, Tom. You’re a pretty simple guy.”

  “What every man loves to hear.”

  “I mean it in a good way. You’re decent. You’re not some brooding, tormented soul struggling with demons. You’re not some grandiose narcissist trying to game the system. You’re nice. You’re solid. I love you. I’m ready to have kids with you whenever you’re ready. But we don’t need to wait until the world is perfect. We’re waiting for you to figure out that the world will never be perfect.”

  “There’s a big difference between worrying about random crime and the fact that there is a psycho after me. Probably more than one, if The Nine figure out what’s going on. Or maybe they already know.”

  Not a pleasant thought.

  “Great. You’re feeding your own fear.”

  “It’s not paranoia if people really are out to get you.”

  “I’m not saying you’re paranoid. I’m saying you’re afraid.”

  “I have a right to be afraid, Joan.”

  To punctuate his comment, Stallone chose that moment to have a barking fit outside their bedroom window. Tom startled, and what remained of his arousal shrank away.

  “Probably just a squirrel,” Joan said. But she didn’t sound convincing.

  Tom reached for the gun under the mattress and pulled back the slide to load a round. “We paid a lot of money training Stallone so he won’t bark at squirrels.”

  Joan nodded, then took her gun from under the mattress.

  His and hers 9mms. Best wedding present ever, Roy.

  The barking stopped.

  Tom got up to sneak a peek through the curtains.

  Security lights illuminated the backyard, showing raw details of every tree, every bush, every blade of grass, every shadow in the iron perimeter fence.

  No Stallone.

  “What’s he doing?”

  “I don’t see him.”

  “Should we call him?”

  Tom didn’t have an answer. He’d come if called, but Stallone was a guard dog. If he was guarding, Tom preferred he do his job.

  “Did you check the gate camera?”

  As he spoke, Joan already had her cell phone on, staring at the app. “Nothing. Still closed.”

  Then they heard growls from outside.

  Two sets of growls.

  One was Stallone.

  The other…

  “Is that another dog?” Joan asked.

  “I’m not sure. Sounds like—”

  Joan finished Tom’s thought. “Sounds like… a man pretending to be a dog.”

  They listened until the growling stopped.

  For ten long seconds, silence.

  Then…

  Stallone. Whimpering.

  Followed by a man whimpering.

  “Call 911 and stay here,” Tom told Joan as he got out of bed and slipped on his robe. The gun in his hand didn’t reassure him as he crept out of the bedroom and into the hallway. The lights in the house were on—Joan didn’t like to waste energy but Tom insisted on a brightly lit house—and he walked slowly and steadily into the kitchen.

  He heard a beep.

  The doggy door.

  Stallone…?

  Or did someone just crawl through the doggy door and enter our house?

  Someone strong enough and smart enough to get pa
st a Doberman?

  Someone armed?

  “Cops will be here in two minutes!”

  Tom knew Joan wasn’t shouting for his sole benefit. She also yelled so any potential intruder would hear.

  That’s a mistake.

  Two minutes is an eternity.

  For a motivated psycho, two minutes is enough time to inflict a ridiculous amount of hurt.

  It’s enough time to kill countless people.

  It’s enough time to start an unstoppable house fire.

  Tom sniffed the air.

  Do I smell smoke? Or is that still the red snapper I burned for dinner?

  Do we run?

  Maybe he wants us to run.

  Maybe he’s waiting for us.

  Tom found himself unable to focus, unable to act. All he could think about was how much he screwed up.

  I brought this on us.

  A guard dog wasn’t enough.

  Locks and fences and cameras weren’t enough.

  I put us at risk, and didn’t do enough to protect us.

  I—

  Sound and movement, coming at him, and Tom’s training kicked in and he dropped to a knee, grunted with pain as his scar tissue met with the tile floor, brought up his weapon and aimed ahead as a blur darted toward him, began to squeeze the trigger—

  —and stopped himself just as Stallone ran up to him.

  But something was wrong with his dog.

  As Stallone nudged Tom, whimpering, Tom grabbed his collar and pulled him away to look at him, noticing the leather muzzle buckled over his snout, and then seeing the handwritten note tied around the Doberman’s neck.

  hi tom

  i like your doggy

  catch you later

  erinyes

  Stallone’s eyes were wide, and he tried to shake the muzzle off.

  “Dog’s okay! Don’t come out of the—”

  Movement, behind him, and Tom spun around, bringing his weapon to bear—

  —and once again pulled his barrel up and avoided squeezing the trigger as Joan came up to him.

  Jesus.

  “Dammit, Joan. I almost shot you.”

  “I trusted you wouldn’t.”

  “Next time, tell me.”

  “And also tell whoever’s in the house? I thought you were in trouble.”

  “Are you still on with 911?”

  “No. The operator was droning on and I couldn’t hear what you were doing.”

  We need to talk about how to better prepare for a home invasion.

  Later.

  Right now the crisis is still in full effect.

  Joan crouched next to Stallone.

  “Leave the muzzle on. Cover the doorway behind you. When the cops show up, put your gun in the knife drawer, right in front of us, and let me do the talking.”

  They waited.

  Tom’s hands shook with adrenaline.

  Sirens cut the silence, growing louder.

  “I’m terrified,” Joan said.

  “We’ll be okay. Got your phone?”

  She nodded.

  “Hand me your gun. Use your phone and get ready to open the gate for the police. When they arrive, tell them our names and that we’re the homeowners. Tell them we’re in our robes, and we’re in the kitchen. Tell them someone is in our yard. Then hold Stallone.”

  Tom knew he needed to unlock the front door for them; it was made of steel and would be almost impossible to kick in. But he decided to wait until they arrived.

  I don’t want to open the door for Erinyes.

  After what seemed like three eternities and five heart attacks, the police finally arrived at the security gate and Joan did her spiel while Tom used his phone to unlock the front door. He opened up the knife drawer—never a wise thing to be armed when the cops show up—and when they knocked and announced themselves as police Tom and Joan put their guns away and raised their hands over their heads and Tom shouted out his name and that he was in the kitchen.

  Two jacked-up cops came in, full vests and helmets and weapons drawn, and two behind them split off to search the house.

  “I’m former Chicago PD,” Tom told them. “How many outside?”

  “Four,” said the lead guy, eyeing Stallone. “Let’s get you out of here until we’ve cleared the property.”

  Tom nodded, Joan got Stallone’s leash, and they waited outside for the inevitable news that Erinyes had left.

  ERINYES

  Erinyes checks his rearview mirror at all of the flashing red and blue lights.

  So many cops. All for me.

  Excellent response time as well.

  Being rich has its benefits.

  Erinyes grins a toothless grin. Feels happy, feels invulnerable.

  Feels ready.

  I deserve a snack.

  He reaches into his pocket, finds the Ziplock bag.

  Wiggle wiggle.

  He brings the bag to his mouth, opens a corner, and pours in a few roaches. Some escape, scurrying down his chin and neck before he can catch them.

  Fast food.

  Crunch crunch crunch.

  He smacks, feeling the bugs die, gumming them into a paste of guts and legs, then swallowing as he considers his next move.

  Phase 1 had been to track down Tom.

  Mission accomplished.

  Phase 2 had been to show Tom how vulnerable he was at home.

  Mission accomplished.

  Phase 3 involves a bit of luck. But Cissick has planned for days. He’s covered the bases. He’s considered contingencies and alternatives.

  Right now, they won’t feel safe.

  They’ll want to go somewhere for the night.

  It won’t be with his buddy Roy; his apartment isn’t big enough.

  There are hotels that accept pets, but booking at the last minute will be tough.

  That leaves one place.

  Erinyes waits.

  And waits.

  And waits.

  The cops leave.

  Cissick, now thoroughly bored, plays a phone app game. Zombie Sugar Jackers 4: Back to the Jackpack Attack Snack Smackpack. The game is so convoluted it’s almost unplayable. Yet somehow it gets high ratings.

  Maybe old fans are just sticking with it out of familiarity. Or habit.

  Or maybe people are too stupid to recognize garbage.

  He finishes the level, then has to spend $5 on honeycomb coins so the JackPatRack Queen drops more golden jellies to protect his candy cane farm from the sugar zombies.

  So dumb. Why do people like this shit?

  After twenty more minutes of lackluster playing, and wasting two chocolate bombs on the gummy locust plague, finally, finally, Cissick sees Tom and Joan’s car leave their house.

  He doesn’t follow. He checks the GPS he planted on their dog’s collar.

  After staring at their path for a few minutes, he grins, pleased.

  They are heading toward the marina.

  As I expected.

  I’ve gotten everything ready.

  Everything has been delivered.

  Everything is in place.

  Now I can begin Phase 4.

  FABLER

  Wichita, Kansas

  The beer was cold, but it didn’t slake Fabler’s thirst.

  He glanced at Grim, who wasn’t drinking.

  Good. That was a problem.

  And bad. I’m bored out of my mind and there’s no one to get buzzed with.

  His wife, Lori, was playing with the baby.

  Though I need to stop thinking baby. The kid is two years old.

  Presley, who Grim still hadn’t married because he’s an idiot, was with Lori and the kid. Currently doing some government contract work. Nothing grunt-worthy. Computer stuff.

  Boring.

  Am I actually jonesing for action?

  Am I turning into one of those guys who gets bored being happy, and starts looking for trouble?

  Fabler contemplated his thoughts.

  Nothing had been the same si
nce Lori had gotten back.

  Not that it was bad. Quite the opposite. Life was good.

  But it was different.

  Years ago, I felt like I had a purpose.

  So driven. Almost possessed.

  Like someone was writing the story of my life, putting words in my head and mouth, prompting me to action.

  Now?

  Fabler felt hollow. Incomplete.

  And as terrible as it sounds, I wish something dramatic would happen.

  Fabler’s cell rang, and he fished it out of his jeans and answered.

  “Fabler? This is Jamal.”

  Jamal. Hardigan’s buddy, who made the body armor.

  “How’s it going, Jamal?”

  “I got a call from a client. He wanted me to make an assisted support suit, for a cop who had a spinal injury. Something to help her walk and move better.”

  Fabler had never heard of that. “Robotics?”

  “Kind of. It’s a nanotech fiber. Real cutting edge, real expensive. But he was asking around for mercenaries. He needs some people. A week or two in Los Angeles. Paying a lot of money. I told him I’d pass it along.”

  Ask and you shall receive. “Wet work?”

  “I don’t think so. Babysitting. You and your buddy, Grim. You still do consulting and protection jobs?”

  “We pretty much gave that up, Jamal.”

  “The client, he’s kind of famous. A private eye, had a show on TV a while back, does this webcast on YouTube that gets millions of hits. His name is Harry McGlade.”

  Harry McGlade? Why does that sound familiar?

  “Gimme a second, Jamal.” Fabler tapped Grim. “Hey, jackass,” he said. “You and Presley interested in doing some bodyguard work on the West Coast? Pay is great.”

  “Lemme ask the boss.” Grim cupped his hand and yelled, “Hey, Presley! Want to play soldier for a few weeks with me and Fabler! Bodyguard job!”

  Presley helped Lori take Pilgrim off of Sinatra’s back, and she jogged over.

  “What’s the job?” she asked.

  “Los Angeles. Protecting some web celeb named Harry McGlade.”

  Presley grinned. “I love that dude. He does the show Private Dick Live and Streaming in Your Face. He’s hysterical.”

  “So you’re in?” Fabler asked.

  “I’m in if you guys are in,” Presley said. “Grim?”

  “I got some vacation days saved up at the laundromat. I’m in. Fabler?”