J.A. Konrath / Jack Kilborn Trilogy - Three Scary Thriller Novels (Origin, The List, Haunted House) (45 page)

“I’ll need the cleaning service to come by, take care of this blood. I’d also like the bathroom cleaned and the Jacuzzi drained. The phone needs to be fixed—I think the line was cut. And get some quotes on alarm systems. While you’re at it, call up Stevensen Burglary and tell them their product stinks and I demand a refund. Also tell them to kiss my ass.”

Marty grinned. “There’s the tiger I know and love.” He took out a pocket tape recorder and repeated her instructions.

Joan went into the bedroom and shed her outfit. She tossed it in the garbage. A shame, but she would never wear it again, with the memories attached. She stared momentarily at her wardrobe and went with her favorite power suit—a Claiborne red blazer with wide shoulders and a matching skirt. A white silk blouse and some red pumps rounded out the ensemble. After checking herself in the bedroom mirror, she switched from heels to flats. The pumps looked better, but you can’t move fast in heels.

Marty had drawn the blinds over the patio doors, his tan complexion somewhat pale. He must have seen her dog. Poor Schnapps. She’d been so consumed with her own safety, she hadn’t had time to mourn the death of her furry pal. She felt the tears well up, but refused to let them fall.

“Call… call someone to have those stakes removed.”

“Should I arrange for… services?”

“Have him cremated. Pick out a nice urn. I didn’t have him long, but he was a good dog.”

The tears fell anyway. Joan went to the bathroom and forced composure. It took a few minutes, but she managed to get her breathing under control. Then she did the two minute makeover; a little foundation, a touch of eyeliner and mascara, and some quick, subtle lipstick. Feeling much more like herself, she grabbed her extra set of keys and led Marty out of the house.

“I also want a new front door lock. Something pick proof, if such a thing exists. Tell the locksmith I’m putting the keys in the mailbox.” She did just that. “Do you mind if I drive, Marty?”

“Go ahead. I’d like to make some calls, get started on this anyway.”

She put the Vette through the paces, cornering fast, pushing 90 mph on straight-aways, weaving through traffic with a liberating sense of abandon.

When they arrived at work, Joan felt good. She loved her office
. Joan DeVilliers Productions
began its life sharing space with an insurance agent in East Compton. Now, eight years and many movies later, she had a plush sixth floor spread on the Strip with a view and all the chrome and mirrors money could buy.

Marsha, her secretary, greeted her with a stack of messages and the Fed Ex from Paramount. Joan spent the next hour pouring over the contract, making little additions and deletions to various clauses, the horrors of the previous day lost in a stream of legalese.

That done, she had Marsha free up her schedule for the afternoon and got to work on reviewing some script changes for the Cruise film. Rather than her usual lunch at
Brisbeee’s
, Joan ordered pizza and surprised herself by eating four slices. She was on her fifth when the intercom buzzed.

“Joan? The LAPD in on line two. Says it’s urgent.”

“Thanks, Marsha.”

Urgent. Had they caught the creep?

“This is Joan DeVilliers.”

“You broke my nose, bitch. You think it’s over? I’m going to shove a stake so far up your—”

Joan slammed down the receiver. When her hands stopped shaking, she called the police.

“T
hese aren’t eggs.” Bert poked at the airline food with his undersized plastic fork. “I think they’re some kind of polymer. I shouldn’t have paid extra for the meal.”

Tom didn’t care. He devoured them anyway, along with the stale bun, the dry sausage, and two cups of bland coffee. He also polished off Roy’s meal while his partner snored, zonked out from the painkillers.

“So we’re meeting with the doctor who created us?”

Tom frowned at the terminology. He didn’t like the idea of being created. But then, he wasn’t exactly born either. Or was he? The answers were less than an hour away.

“He’s picking us up at the airport.”

“I don’t see why
he
had to come.” Bert pointed his chin at Roy. He hadn’t shaved, and it was tough to spot his stitches.

“He’s my partner. We watch each other’s backs. You didn’t have to come either. You could have stayed in Chicago.”

“I have a right. I have questions, too.”

“You didn’t have to bring your lures.”

“They go where I go.” Bert reached up and switched off the blowing nozzle. “Recirculated air. I call these things
germ cannons
. You might as well be French kissing everyone on the plane.”

Tom wiped the pat of butter off the little white square of cardboard and onto his third bun. Bert stored his tray in the upright position and fished a magazine out of the pouch on the seat ahead of him.

“Oh boy. An issue of
Macramé Monthly
that I haven’t read yet.”

The flight attendant collected their plates, but not before Tom forked the last sausage into his mouth. The cut inside his cheek had healed some, but the salty meat still stung. If indeed it was meat—it tasted more like a member of the rubber family. He didn’t feel the wound on his head at all, and since his hair covered the stitches it wasn’t even noticeable. The thing that hurt like hell was his ribcage; sleeping on Roy’s soft leather couch had been a mistake. Every breath was like a fork in the chest.

Tom glanced to his left, over the lightly snoring Roy, out the window. Clouds obscured his view. To his right, Bert was absorbed in the magazine. It was strange to look at him, a face so recognizable that it was practically an archetype.

“So, Bert—since you found out about the Einstein thing, has there been any indication that you really are him?”

Bert set the magazine down.

“You mean have I ever had any brilliant thoughts or ideas?”

“Yeah.”

“Nope. Not one.”

“Have you ever taken an IQ test?”

“Like those Mensa puzzles? Figure out which number comes next in the series?”

“Yeah. Those.”

“No. Never could get through them. I got slightly above average on my SAT, though. After my third try.”

Tom noticed several strands of gray in Bert’s wavy hair. In ten or twenty years it would become the great white mop known the world over.

“How about you, Tom? Do you feel any different? Since finding out?”

Tom was about to answer no, but he realized that wasn’t the case. Though he still felt like himself, he was experiencing something akin to performance anxiety. He’d been struggling with it since last night, after Harold had asked when he was going to go into politics.

There was a whole big world out there. Shouldn’t he be doing something more than just police work? Tom had always thought he was a good cop, good at his job, but now it didn’t seem like it was enough.

“I don’t feel like a different person, but I think I do feel a little inadequate.”

“That will pass. Soon you’ll feel completely worthless.”

Bert went back to his magazine. Tom opened the little nozzle over his head, bathing his face with the germ cannon’s cool, stale air. He smoothed out the wrinkles in the tan pants Roy had lent him. They were a little big in the waist, but otherwise fit fine. The loaned shirt was another story. Tom was swimming in it, and since putting it on he felt the urge to hit the gym and work on his pecs.

Bert hummed as he read. Something vaguely familiar. When Tom realized it was Britney Spears he shook his head. As far as nature vs. nurture went, Bert was a damn fine argument for nurture.

“What’s 55 x 26?” Tom asked.

“Hell if I know.”

“I thought you were a stock market wizard.”

Bert looked up at him.

“How did… that doctor told you, didn’t he? You said he kept tabs on us.” Bert shrugged. “I did some trading. Made some fortunes. Lost some fortunes. That’s behind me now.”

“But you were good at it? Without dealing with numbers?”

“I didn’t deal in numbers. I dealt in shares and dollars.”

“Same thing.”

“Not for me.”

“Okay—if I had 85,552 dollars and wanted to buy some shares of stock that sold at 2 ¼, how many shares could I buy?”

Bert didn’t hesitate. “You could buy 38,023 shares and have 11 cents left over.” When the realization of what he just said hit him, he broke into a wide grin. “Hey! Do another one.”

Surprised, Tom continued. “A guy wants to buy 351 shares of a stock that’s at 6 7/8s.”

“He needs 2413 dollars and 12 and a half cents.” Bert beamed. “Wow! I’m pretty amazing!”

“What’s 18 x 45?”

Bert’s smile faltered. “I don’t know.”

“That doesn’t make sense, Bert.”

“I know it doesn’t make sense. But I just don’t know.”

“Okay, what if I wanted to buy 45 shares of stock at 18 dollars a share?”

“Eight hundred and ten dollars. This is weird, Tom. How come I can do it if it’s a stock question but not when it’s just simple multiplication?”

Tom recalled an old story he’d heard about Albert Einstein.

“Do you care about multiplication?”

“Hell no.”

“Did you care about the stock market?”

“I lived and breathed to trade.”

“There’s your answer. Maybe you’re a genius at what you care about. Einstein failed math in school. He just had no interest in it.”

“You think that’s it?”

“Could be.”

Bert scrunched up his face. Tom could see he was puzzling it out.

“So now all I need to do is force myself to care about quantum mechanics.”

“That’s possible.”

“But I don’t care about quantum mechanics. It bores the crap out of me. Do you care about life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness?”

“As much as the next guy. I don’t dwell on it.”

“How are your writing skills? Essays and reports and things?”

“Well, I won that Pulitzer a few years back.”

“So, in other words, I probably have Einstein’s intellect locked up in my head somewhere. But you got buttkiss from Jefferson.”

Bert delved into the magazine again, leaving Tom to dwell on that. The feeling was akin to being ten feet tall, but still unable to dunk a basketball.

As the plane emptied, Tom was reluctant to leave his seat. His self-esteem was at an all time low, and being told he was conceived in a lab under a microscope couldn’t possibly help.

“Are you guys coming?” Bert already had his carryon in hand and his sunglasses perched on the end of his long nose.

“We here?” Roy yawned and stretched. “Did I miss breakfast?”

“I wouldn’t phrase it like that.”

Roy attempted to stand up, forcing his partner to move out of his way. Tom gripped the armrests and pried himself out of his chair.

“Don’t forget your donut.” Bert pointed to the inflatable ring on Roy’s chair. The cop turned and picked it up, his face sour.

They were the last ones out of the plane; Tom and Roy had been required to fly with their guns locked up in the cockpit per FTA rules. The moment Tom stepped onto the runway he had to squint against the glare. He’d never been to New Mexico before, but it was exactly like he’d anticipated. Hot, dry, sunny, with mountains in the distance. The authentic West. The trio walked to the terminal, which was minuscule by Chicago standards. A sign welcomed them to the ABQ Sunport, and the air conditioning embraced them like a close family when they entered.

Tom asked for directions to the front entrance, receiving them in a pronounced drawl from a steward. He didn’t have a cowboy hat to tip, but thanked the man just the same. The airport was quiet, serene, no large crowds or rushing people. It was unnatural. Perhaps there was some kind of sedative in the water.

“Hello!”

Dr. Harold Harper was stooped with age, tanned the color of mahogany, sporting faded jeans and a plaid shirt. He had a fringe of white hair encircling a bald dome speckled with liver spots. Tom knew his age to be seventy-two, but the doctor rushed to greet them like someone half that.

“Wonderful to see you! Let me look.” He grasped Tom’s shoulders and gave him the once-over. “My, it’s simply amazing. You could have just stepped off a two dollar bill. And Albert—” Bert got similar treatment. “The mustache and everything. Did you have the mustache before, or grow it once you found out? And who’s this?”