Authors: Jack Kilborn
Jack walked to my right, stepping on all my stuff that I was storing on the floor.
“Hey, watch out for the pizza, Jack. I’m not done with it.”
“Get dressed,” she said. “We’re going to your office.”
“Kiss my piles. It’s my day off. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Then you’re under arrest.”
“For what?”
“For being an asshole.”
“You can’t do that. I’ve got an Asshole License.”
“Okay. How about for assaulting an officer?”
“I haven’t laid a hand on you,” I said.
“Seeing you in your underwear qualifies as assault.”
“Look,” I told her. “We’ve already done this exact same song and dance in a previous book. Can’t we do some new material?”
Jack squinted at me, her nose wrinkling up. “What the hell are you talking about, McGlade?”
“
Whiskey Sour
by J.A. Konrath. The first published Jack Daniels thriller. Remember it? This scene was from the middle of the book. Then, several chapters later, we wind up in the sewers and—”
“Shut up!” Jack said. “God, you’re such a dick.”
“How am I a dick?”
“What if someone hasn’t read
Whiskey Sour
yet? You want to spoil the ending for them?”
“Yes, I do,” I said smiling. “At the end of
Whiskey Sour
I—”
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Deb decided against taking a bath. She’d get up early, deal with it then. Right now, she just wanted to sleep and try to forget this day ever happened. She took off her fanny pack, placed it on the sink, and pulled out her toothbrush and toothpaste. The water was rusty colored, but she made do. Afterward, she picked up a hand towel and left the bathroom. Then she sat on the edge of the bed and undressed down to her underwear.
I really hate this part.
Deb hit the release valves on her prosthetics, breaking the suction. She eased them off and set the Cheetah artificial legs on the floor, next to the bed. Then she rolled down the gel sock, sheathing the vestige of her left calf. A day’s worth of accumulated sweat dripped onto the floor. Deb wiped the sheath with the towel and gave it a tentative sniff.
Not too funky. I can get another wear out of it.
She pulled the silicone end pad out of the bottom, dried it off, and repeated the process with the other side, setting the sheaths on the night stand. Then Deb finally looked at her legs.
The amputations were transtibial; below the knee. Her left leg was three inches longer than her right, and both came to tapered ends. Deb hated that they were uneven—it made her feel even more deformed. To make the complete package reach
eleven
on the hideous scale, each leg had raised, ugly scars, from her surgery, and from her cougar injuries. On top of all that, she needed to shave.
Yuck,
Deb thought.
I’m a monster.
She always thought that when she looked at her stumps.
Her skin below each knee was pruned and red. The gel sheet provided cushioning, but Deb sweat so much she got heat rash. The alternative was to wear stump socks, which would wick away sweat just like regular socks did. Unfortunately, the suction of the prosthetics weren’t as tight when she wore socks, and Deb didn’t want to risk having a leg fall off while in motion. Still, she’d eventually have to come up with some sort of compromise. Even the strongest antiperspirants didn’t do much to help.
She draped the towel over her legs, then began to dry her stumps, massaging the muscles. Then she yawned, and flicked off the light switch next to the bed. The room went dark, and Deb buried her face in the Roosevelt pillowcase, letting her mind blank out.
Less than a minute later, she heard something creak.
Like someone is walking toward the bed.
Deb’s eyelids snapped open, and she fumbled for the light switch.
The room was empty.
She waited, riding out the adrenaline, her heart dancing a rhumba. But there were no more noises. No one around.
Okay. Old houses creak. No need to get paranoid about it. The door is locked. I’m alone. I need to go back to sleep.
She hit the switch, adjusted the pillow, and rested her head.
Creak, creak, creak.
Closer this time.
The light on once again, Deb sat up in bed. No one was in the room. She wondered if there was some reasonable explanation for this. Maybe the creaks were coming from the floor below. Or next door. Or maybe she was hearing something else that she mistook for footsteps.
But it didn’t sound
nearby
. It sounded like it was coming from in the room.
She waited longer this time. Waited for the creaking to come back.
There was only silence.
Deb put her head back down, but she left the light on. If there was another creaking noise, she wanted to be able to see what was causing it.
Is someone messing with me?
Who? I’m alone in here.
After another long minute, she closed her eyes. She let her mind wander, and it found its way back to Mal. Cute guy. Obviously interested. All Deb needed to do was get out of her own way, and let things develop. If she stopped second-guessing everything, stopped thinking ten steps ahead, maybe she could actually—
Creak.
Deb opened her eyes, wide.
The creak came from right under my bed.
Moving slowly, she peeked over the edge, half-expecting to see some masked psychopath lying on the floor, waiting to spring.
She saw nothing. And that scared the living hell out of her.
My prosthetics are gone.
Deb left them alongside the bed. She was sure of it. She checked the nightstand, saw the gel sheaths were still there.
Maybe I’m brain dead. Maybe I put them on the other side.
Rolling over, Deb peered over the other end of the mattress.
All she saw was bare floor.
Someone took my legs.
Then the bed moved. Just a bit, but enough for Deb to realize what was happening.
The person who took my legs is under the bed.
Deb stared at the closet. She had her cosmetic legs in her case. If she could get to them, strap them on, she’d at least have a chance at getting away.
But how? Ease onto the floor and crawl there? That’s at least five yards away. I’ll never get there in time.
The bed jerked again. Harder this time. Whoever was under there lifted up the box spring and let it drop.
Then she heard him chuckle. Soft and low.
The fear that overtook Deb was the worst thing she ever felt. Worse than when she was falling off the mountain. Worse than when she was being stalked by the cougar.
This isn’t a mistake. This isn’t mother nature.
This is a human being deliberately intending to do me harm.
Her mind flashed back to the blowout. Maybe Mal had been right. Maybe someone had shot out the tire, to make sure they couldn’t get away.
And maybe that someone was under her bed right now.
What am I supposed to do? Any other person would be able to run away.
Maybe I can talk to him
Deb’s voice was shaking when she said, “Who’s there?”
After a terrible silence, a voice directly beneath Deb said,
“I’m Harry.”
It hit Deb like a slap to the face. She was so frightened she began to shiver. He was
right
beneath her.
“What… what do you want, Harry?”
No answer.
“Harry…?”
“I think I’m stuck. Could use a little help here.”
A moment later some chick with no legs was pulling me out from under the bed.
“How did you get under there?” she demanded.
I brushed off some dust bunnies and shrugged. “Whoever is reading this is playing Nook roulette,” I said. “Any idea what ebook this is?”
“It’s
Endurance
by Jack Kilborn.”
“A horror novel, huh?”
Deb nodded.
“Isn’t Kilborn really J.A. Konrath?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“Why’d he use a pen name?”
Deb shrugged. “I dunno. He said different genres have different fans, or something stupid like that.”
“What’s this one about?” I asked, not really caring.
“Inbred mutants in a spooky bed and breakfast in West Virginia. I thought one of them was under my bed.”
“You really went out on a limb, there.”
Deb’s forehead furrowed. “Was that some kind of crack?”
“What do you mean?”
“I have no legs, and you used the word
limb
.”
“No offense intended. I love crippled broads. Want to hear some amputee jokes?”
“Want me to knock your teeth out?”
“Easy, sister. I’m your kind of people. See?” I raised my right hand, showing her my prosthetic. “I lost this in the Konrath book
Rusty Nail
. He apparently likes cutting off body parts.”
“Wait…
Rusty Nail
? Are you Harry McGlade?”
“In the flesh.”
Deb chewed her lower lip. “I’ve read all the Jack Daniels books. You’re my favorite character. I loved the one where you and Jack were in the truck, hauling all those explosives.”
“
Dirty Martini
,” I said. “One of my many shining moments.”
“You’re funny.” Deb trailed a finger across my chest. “I dig funny guys.”
“Cool,” I said. “Wanna fool around?”
“Sure.”
After a few minutes of trying to shove Deb back onto the bed, we opted for floor sex. But I’d barely gotten my pants off when some freaky inbred asshole with two noses broke into our room and chopped off my head with an axe.
What a shitty ending. I hope
Endurance
was a lot better than that.
The end.
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Harry’s List of Rejected Dr. Seuss Book Titles
HOW THE GRINCH STOLE MY WIFE
HORTON HATCHES A TERRORIST PLOT
ON BEYOND DONKEY PUNCH
MARVIN K MOONEY WILL YOU GO TO HELL
ARCHER THE FLARCHER
THE CAT IN THE HAT GETS FELINE AIDS
GREEN EGGS AND E COLI
THIDWICK THE BIG HEARTED PIMP
MR. BROWN CAN MOO, AND THEY PUT HIM AWAY
THERE’S A WOCKET IN MY POCKET, AND I BLAME VIAGRA
BOOMER THE TUMOR
CRAP ON POP
THE 500 FISTINGS OF BARTHOLOMEW CUBBINS
IF I RAN THE CRACK HOUSE
I CAN LICK THIRTY HOOKERS TODAY!
OH, THE PLACES YOU’LL PUKE
SHIT-HEAD MAYZIE
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Bored with that Amish story, and desperate to have single, linear narrative without bouncing around all over the place, I found myself back at my office, awaiting my next client. I was halfway through a meatball sandwich when a man came into my office and offered me money to steal a dog.
A lot of money.
“Are you an animal lover, Mr. McGlade?”
“Depends on the animal. And call me Harry.”
He offered his hand. I stuck out mine, and watched him frown when he noticed the marinara stains. He abruptly pulled back, reaching instead into the inner pocket of his blazer. The suit he wore was tailored and looked expensive, and his skin was tanned to a shade only money can buy.
“This is Marcus.” His hand extended again, holding a photograph. “He’s a Shar-pei.”
Marcus was one of those unfortunate Chinese wrinkle dogs, the kind that look like a great big raisin with fur. He was light brown, and his face had so many folds of skin that his eyes were completely covered.
I bet the poor pooch walked into a lot of walls.
“Cute,” I said, because the man wanted to hire me.
“Marcus is a champion show dog. He’s won four AKC competitions. Several judges have commented that he’s the finest example of the breed they’ve ever seen.”
I wanted to say something about Marcus needing a good starch and press, but instead inquired about the dog’s worth.
“With the winnings, and stud fees, he’s worth upwards of ten thousand dollars.”
I whistled. The dog was worth more than I was.
“So, what’s the deal, Mr…”
“Thorpe. Vincent Thorpe. I’m willing to double your usual fee if you can get him back.”
I took another bite of meatball, wiped my mouth on my sleeve, and leaned back in my swivel chair. The chair groaned in disapproval.
“Tell me a little about Marcus, Mr. Thorpe. Curly fries?”
“Pardon me?”
I gestured to the bag on my desk. “Did you want any curly fries? Potatoes make me bloaty.”
He shook his head. I snatched a fry, bloating be damned.
“I’ve, um, raised Marcus since he was a pup. He has one of the best pedigrees in the sport. Since Samson passed away, there has quite literally been no competition.”
“Samson?”
“Another Shar-pei. Came from the same littler as Marcus, owned by a man named Glen Ricketts. Magnificent dog. We went neck and neck several times.”
“Hold on, a second. I’d like to take notes.”
I pulled out my notepad and a pencil. On the first piece of paper, I wrote, “Dog.”
“Do you know who has Marcus now?”
“Another breeder named Abigail Cummings. She borrowed Marcus to service her Shar-pei, Julia. When I went to pick him up, she insisted she didn’t have him, and claimed she didn’t know what I was talking about.”
I jotted this down. My fingers made a grease spot on the page.
“Did you try the police?”
“Yes. They searched her house, but didn’t find Marcus. She’s insisting I made a mistake.”
“Did Abigail give you money to borrow Marcus? Sign any contracts?”
“No. I lent him to her as a favor. And she kept him.”